Today, I am 44 years old, although recent evidence suggests I don’t look a day over 62 (scroll down).
Tonight, after roughly 13 hours of meetings over the course of two days (phew — but I got a lot of knitting done), several colleagues took me out to the local Mexican restaurant for drinks and appetizers. I got a couple of small, thoughtful gifts, two fabulous strawberry daiquiris,* and a the entire male workforce of the restaurant singing to me with guitars and concertinas. While they had me distracted and blushing over all this attention, Ninja Stealth Waiter sneaked up behind me and dabbed a spoonful of whipped cream on my nose. The symbolism of that escapes me,** but it did amuse everyone else at the table. And I got sopapillas with honey, ice cream, whipped cream, cinnamon, and chocolate sauce as my birthday treat, which simultaneously makes one feel special and markedly reduces one’s chances of living long enough to celebrate another birthday.
The livestock displayed their excellent taste and deft use of my credit card to buy me this knitting book and some some lovely mohair blend yarn in a stormy gray/shale blue/taupe colorway. They’re either hoping I’ll slowly go blind knitting lace and thus not notice cats on the table and dogs rummaging through the trash, or they’re planning to let me get a project mostly knitted and then play five way dog/cat/parrot tug-a-war. Or heck, they might even hope I enjoy myself. At any rate, I have enough projects and yarn to take me through the long Iowa winter.
My birthday present to myself was to have a service come mow my 8″ tall lawn (we’ve had nonstop rain for a week+) so I can spend the weekend getting ready for classes, which start on Monday. And when I say “ready,” I mean have the syllabi done and enough of a plan for the week that students don’t notice that I’m not giving them a reading calendar until the day after Labor Day (and guess what I’m doing all next weekend?).
All in all, a very satisfactory birthday, highlighting my life of contentment and good fortune here in Storm Lake.
*If you can’t drink frou-frou drinks (with whipped cream and a cherry, no less) on your birthday, when can you?
**What’s the point, if George Clooney isn’t there to lick it off?