Birthday. My twenty-ninth birthday, on May 1st, was a particularly miserable day. Nobody remembered, except Lee, and he didn’t even say “Happy Birthday” until I told him to. I was upset. Twenty-nine. No “Happy Birthday.” Well, maybe depressed is a better word, except when you get depressed, you don’t get snippy. So I was upset: let’s not whitewash this, here. Some people might think this is understandable, but we reserved types get annoyed at getting upset over something so insignificant as the date of a day. When Lee came home, I cried on his shoulder (we reserved types do this on occaision, but it’s embarrassing) and felt much better. Lee spent the next day spoiling me, and suddenly everyone remembered: “Say, wasn’t it supposed to be your birthday around about now?”
We even went on a date on Tuesday, got tipsy and watched X-men 2. There were difficulties with post-last-minute backout of the original babysitter, but post-post-last minute rearrangements succeeded, and we were able to go. It felt so good to just be on a date.
By the time we picked up Ray, I was definitely ready for a bebe snuggle, though. I spend longer away from her ever day at work, but for some reason, this was different.