I celebrated a birthday over the weekend, and as I reflect on the day itself, I’m trying to decide whether it was good or bad.
On the surface, I definitely deserve a do-over. To most people, it will “sound” terrible. But if I’d been able to script my most perfect of days, I’m not sure it would have been too far off what actually transpired.
For starters, I knew my 47th would be quiet. Doo took three of our four kids to attempt skiing in Michigan, leaving me with our youngest, who had school commitments. I abhor being cold and potential death by arboreal collision, so I was more than happy to stay behind. Besides, I gained a freebie trip to sunny Florida come February as part of the deal. Win-win!
What I didn’t count on was coming down with a mild sinus thingy, leaving me tired and headachy. And though I thought my I’ve-been-smoking-Marlboros-since-middle-school voice was kind of sexy, the resulting upper lip cold sore was decidedly unattractive. My celebratory mini-shopping spree would have to wait.
So, too, would my highly anticipated afternoon at Regal Cinemas with Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Deteriorating road conditions from an ice storm made leaving the house just plain stupid. Disappointing, for sure, because I’d also wanted to try a new method of soup smuggling. Another time, Ruth.
I spent most of my birthday sick and trapped indoors. But I enjoyed a comfy couch by a fire, Netflix at my disposal and plenty of calls and texts from family. Not exactly what I had planned, but relaxing, nonetheless. Yep. Chalk “47” up as a good birthday!
Peace out.
