Twenty-three years ago, the doctor couldn’t find my heartbeat. The room went into panic mode, so out came the forceps and, eventually, me—steady heartbeat intact. Since my dramatic entrance into the world, I’ve managed pretty well, and today I’ll be celebrating like a T-rex on a trampoline: skinny arms, big head, and all smiles. (Don’t tell me that’s not a T-rex, because I don’t care. Also, it’s my birthday, not yours.)
Today I’ll be readying myself for the food that lies ahead this evening. In celebration, John and I are making four kinds of homemade pizzas. And by John and I, I mostly mean John, to whom I thoughtfully suggested preparing a day ahead. He appreciated the advice. We’ll probably end up going out Friday night, and I’m hoping that after almost four years of togetherness, I’ll finally get to flex my mad bowling skills. And by that I mean my bowling skills that go from weak to impressive after one beer, then back to embarrassing after two.
Since no one has actually asked me what I want for my birthday this year, I’m assuming I’ll FINALLY be getting that pony. I promise I’ll act surprised.