Lust for Life

I still get excited about my birthday. I can't really help it. It's my mother's fault. Isn't that what we always default to, blaming our mothers? In this case, it's true, though. She did me in years ago. My brother, too. The bar was set so enormously high for birthday extravaganzas (not to mention Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Valentine's Day, you get the idea...) that I truly feel for the past paramours in my life who have had to deal with "The Birthday Spector." I mean, who could possibly compete with Chuck-E-Cheese blowouts in my childhood, slumber party mayhem in my tweens (complete with bobbing for apples AND pizza!) and a masquerade party at 16. COME ON! Mom loves to have a good time. She loves to socialize and chat and live large. And she passed this on to me, along with the lasting impression that birthdays are one's very, very special, sacrosanct day, not to be forgotten, not to be taken lightly. In many ways, they truly are. It's your birthday. The day of your birth. This is serious stuff, folks. That journey from concept to finished good is no small thing.
Fate saw fit to pair me up with an amazing gift-giver. My spouse has an uncanny knack for getting just the right thing for the right person. He's listening to everyone, all the time, even if he seems locked up in Glenn-land, thinking thoughts of extreme profundity. I often imagine he's stealthily unraveling the secrets of the ages. In actuality, however, most likely he's really just listening and noting to himself that my mom mentioned in passing that she needs new cookie sheets, or that my friends (whom he had never even met at the time!!) were having a baby and need super hip baby clothes, or some other random thing I happen to mention desiring in passing. He's a super-giver. Folks like him are rare, rare gems.
So, because my birthday is approaching, and because, even though I'm creeping up on 32 and should be well past such child-ish birthday enthusiasm, I find myself getting excited. Again, I can't help it. It's mom, remember? It's mom that caused me to throw myself a 25th birthday dance party/pot-luck blowout. And a 30th birthday pinata/build-your-own-tostada/homemade mojito & sangria shindig. This excitement is an enormous catalyst, though. This excitement motivates me to turn inward and ask myself truly important questions. Questions like, which pair of shoes would I rather have come birthday-time? The pragmatic, I-live-on-12-acres-and-oversee-the-care-of-14-animals boots, or the so-cute-I'm-nauseous wedges? But it's not really my fault. Are you reading this mom? Did you note the wedges?