Today is Harold’s thirty-fourth birthday. We have to work today, but if we didn’t I would make him bacon all day long and let him talk about cars without interruption or making that huffy noise. I would make him deviled eggs with only mayo – no mustard, because that’s what his mother used to do it, and his mother is clearly a very wise woman.
I would promote his looking things up on Ebay, like cars and pond supplies and then I would encourage him to call for me to come look at them. I would support his wanting to watch Pimp My Ride and Jean Claude Van Damme movies and would gladly come running without rolling my eyes to see ‘this part you have to see!’.
I would keep the thermostat at 77 degrees all day and not complain one bit about my hair flopping from the humidity or how I couldn’t let one body part touch another because I was icky & sweaty. I would not point out how the dogs were sprawled on the kitchen floor trying to get as close as they could to the ceramic tiles or how the cat was in the basement, trying to stay cool.
I would graciously let him bounce his leg all day, unable to keep still and I would support his decision to wear camouflage cargo shorts with a button up, short sleeve collar shirt. Also with sandals.
I would smile broadly as he hovered directly behind me in the kitchen while I fixed meals and applaud the way he loaded the dishwasher. I would not mind if he took a 40-minute shower or if he hung his wet towel up on the robe hook instead of the towel bar.
I would congratulate his decision to drink red wine from a plastic coffee mug.
I would get him a cheesecake with 34 candles on top and he could eat as much as he wanted. Taking as big of bites as he wanted. As fast as he wanted. Even if it were so fast that he was unable to breath and it would not gross me out.
Yes, it would likely be his BEST DAY EVER. It’s really too bad we had to work.
Oh, well. Happy Birthday anyway, honey!
