2007 March 01 «

The only thing I really want for my birthday is to enjoy a hot, sunny day at the beach.

I’d go for a morning jog on the boardwalk or even in the sand–not too early, though, because of course I’d sleep in–take a shower, and find a little diner to order eggs with a side order of grits. After breakfast, I’d throw on a swimsuit and shorts, toss a paperback book into a beach bag, drape a towel around my neck, don sunglasses and spend the day on the sand.

After reading, feeding the gulls, snapping a picture of some sandpipers skittering along the foamy edge of the water, snoozing, writing in a journal, thinking, praying, and pondering life, I’d take a long walk. Toward evening, I’d swing by a shrimp shack and pick up a half-pound of steamed shrimp sprinkled with Old Bay Seasoning, make some sweet tea, and sit by the water, savoring each bite, each sip. After shelling that obscene number of shrimp, I’d rinse my hands in the water. I might find an ice cream stand or clean up a bit and find a nice restaurant to order a special dessert. I’d eat it slowly. After, I’d walk along the beach again and breathe in the salty air. Maybe the moon would be out. I’d linger there until I reluctantly pull myself away and head off to bed, to sleep. To dream.

That would be a great birthday.

Instead, I’m here in the landlocked midwest.

Just glancing out the window, I see piles of limp, dirty snow and icy patches where melted snow refroze. The dog has to step gingerly across the back yard’s slick spots to do his business. In order to jog comfortably, I’d have to pull on several layers and top it off with Gore-Tex, because in winter I’m always that cold, even when exercising–although it may warm several degrees today and churn up a thunderstorm. March may come in like a lion.

In the meantime, a thick layer of clouds hides the sun, turning the sky a depressing whitish-gray, the color of our old athletic socks. The closest beach other than a frigid Lake Michigan is about 13 hours’ drive from here.

To make matters worse, the kids were off by one day–they wished me a happy birthday yesterday morning. Obviously the family has not been discussing my birthday very much. And I couldn’t help but note their tone: they said it very mildly. Matter-of-factly. “Happy birthday, Mom.” No exclamation point. No jumping up and down, hugs and kisses. They employed the same tone that you’d use to say, ”I think Turner is showing On Golden Pond tonight.”

“My birthday’s tomorrow,” I said.

“Oh. Well, happy early birthday.”

What’s more, as of yesterday I’m pretty sure there was no present in the house–other than the item I ordered from L.L.Bean with a gift certificate I got at Christmas. The kids have offered no giggling hints or expressed giddy anticipation. They may not even know about that package yet–it may have been whisked away and hidden without comment by The Belgian Wonder. If they know, though, they may not be very excited, because they’re giving me a gift that they didn’t pick out themselves, a gift that I received from the UPS man one morning while they were at school. As for anything else, they certainly hadn’t been taken shopping as of yesterday afternoon. I would know; I’m with The Boy all day and believe me, I would know.

So it’s going to be a cold, gloomy, probably stormy, still-snow-covered birthday.

Maybe I’ll make eggs and grits for breakfast. And I think there’s some ice cream in the freezer. I might even go a little crazy and melt some Nutella for a topping.

And get this: the item I ordered from LLBean?