Last Friday marked mi Amor's 38th birthday. Two weeks prior to his big day, I started wooing him, "We're going to eat the best sushi. Then I'm going to perform a dance for you--something contemporary--right in the middle of the restaurant parking lot. (I do this from time to time--dance.) Then we'll go home and watch your favorite movie. We'll open presents and eat cake. What kind of cake do you want?"
"I don't care about my birthday; just skip it," he said.
"We can't do that--just skip it. The kids would be heartbroken and you deserve to be celebrated."
He rolled his eyes and said, "Don't go crazy buying me gifts and whatnot. It's you who cares about being celebrated, not me."
His birthday came, and at four o'clock that afternoon I found myself scrambling to find a cake and a gift. I knew he wanted an ice cream cake from BR, but I was stumped as to what gift to buy: a personal trainer, new golf clubs. Maybe a new suit? But no, none of these ideas actualized. Instead, I found myself at the distribution center, buying him 6 new pairs of underware. Then, the only cake left at BR was this purple cake bedazzled with daisies; I bought it. I told the girl at the counter, "It's how the cake tastes that really matters."
When he unwrapped his present, he didn't bat and eye. "Perfect," he said. And when we brought out the cake he said, "Looks delicious." He didn't complain about his Barney purple cake and how it would stain our teeth gray for the next 24 hours.
I really think the interpretive dance I performed for him, in the TJ Max parking lot, erased the memory of his purple cake and new underware. My dancing was that good.