So, it was just another day.
I had worked eight hours in the yard the day before—hard work, sweat dripping from my brow, creating something from nothing, all-caps, HARD work—and the morning of my birthday was spent convincing my spasming back to get out of bed. I convinced it at one point, but it convinced me to return to bed around 9 a.m. I did so, gladly.
I’m not ashamed that I spent most of my birthday in sweats, lazing about the house, watching “The Goodwin Games,” “Princess Bride” and “The Women” (the former two I highly recommend, the latter, well, don’t bother.)
I left the house for 40 minutes, exactly. Time enough to run three errands and grab myself some celebratory frozen yogurt at the “new” Racetrac—surprisingly the best choice for froyo in a 10-mile radius to Casa de Wilder.
I think it’s brave to spend a birthday completely alone—and to do other normally-attended-in-pairs-or-a-group things alone. Like going to the movies, or to a concert, even embarking on a trip, all of which I’ve done alone. It’s a risk. It’s exhilarating. It builds an internal boldness, a comfort, an ease, with the realization that you can be alone with yourself—and like it.
My bday was a great day. A regular, no surprises day. No commitments, no rushes, no deadlines, no complaints, no to-dos, no expectations kind of day. When’s the last time you had one of those?
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