Tuesday was my birthday. 35, that’s me! It feels a lot like 34, and 33 before that, but 32 sounds just plain young now.
The day lacked all fanfare, which is fine for 35. Celebrations were supposed to be held on Monday, only I hadn’t figured out a thing I wanted to do except visit Gorgough’s Doughnuts, because if you’re going to treat yourself, it may as well be a doughnut as big as your head, smothered in strawberries and cream cheese frosting. But instead of celebrations, the long weekend was filled with flu (Claire) and rain (the entire city of Austin).
About this flu business. Claire came down with a fever Friday evening, of course. I have a real “wait and see what happens” attitude towards fevers, especially with no other symptoms. The flu didn’t even cross my mind until Sunday when she still had a consistent fever, save a few periods of what I like to call Medicine High, where the fever was down and she bounced around the house until she once again crashed in a hard, terrible, feverish heap. Then what was once just a fever became OMG ALL THE GERMS! with every little cough and sniffle.
Even if she had been well, it rained all day Monday, so festivities were cancelled. Instead we hung around and watched TV all day. After three days of sickness, I can say that I have found the End of Netflix, and it’s Spooky Buddies.
I am terrible at birthdays, even my own. Christian said, “One of these days, I’m going to throw you another party.” The last one was my 30th. 5 years ago. I haven’t lamented not having a party since.
“Because it’s fun!”
“For whom?” I’m not trying to be a bitch. I just don’t like being the center of attention. I’ll attend your party all day long, but being the guest of honor stresses me out.
For dinner we opted for Chuy’s, the local Tex-Mex place, where I learned that dinners out with 3 young kids are overrated, even on your birthday. The bathrooms were nice though. I know because I made the trek three times.
And upon my return from the third trip, the waiter came by with the check and a heaping plate of fresh, hot sopapillas and honey.
“Someone told me that it was your birthday, but they also said you hate being sung to…so here you go!” And I couldn’t help but give Christian a thankful smile across the table. I could have died and gone to Heaven, not just because the sopapillas were melty in my mouthy delicious, but because in this moment I knew he really got me.
Also, the sopapillas. Because DUH.