I'm referring, of course, to the agonizing three-day meeting, and not to my birthday, which was lovely.
I warned My Ho ahead of time that Wednesday was going to be “Self-Absorbed Girlfriend Day.” He was nothing but charming as he followed me on a lengthy and thorough tour of Marshall Field’s handbag department. He was very helpful in The Gap and Banana Republic and Eddie Bauer and New York & Co. He sniffed and smelled and nodded most patiently throughout Bath & Body Works.
Various friends and family members provided a divine showering with gifts—gift cards, a book on writing, some tea, the new Liz Phair CD, and, from My Ho, a ridiculously luxurious feather bed, just like the one from our hotel room in Seattle.
And as if that weren’t enough joy for a Goddess on her birthday, at dinner with my family, I ordered an alcoholic beverage and was carded. Carded! And the waitress was all shocked and flustered when she saw the actual age on my ID. (True, the weight on my driver’s license is a total fabrication, but the birthdate is REAL.)
I have never been much of a greeting card person. I never saw the point in spending $4.00 on every birthday and every holiday, to have Hallmark express in mass-produced card form the sentiments that I'm too much of a chicken to say myself (or worse, to say things I don't really even MEAN) to everyone I've ever known in my life, simply because it's expected. If you have something to SAY, I preached, save a tree and write the person a note in your own words! That is so much more meaningful!
Wednesday proved me right about that. No fewer than four of the people I love most in the world gifted me with personal birthday missives—one long, one short, one electronic, and one written in orange marker. Never mind all the stuff, those letters were the best gift of all.
But of course, it couldn't go on forever. Wednesday’s wealth of loveliness made the final agonizing day of the agonizing three-day meeting seem even more, well, agonizing.
And so, on to today’s Friday Haiku:
Brain damage? Or just
a PowerPoint hangover?
It’s too soon to tell.