They arrived yesterday: a batch of birthday cards. Most of the greetings were from family. My mother even sent me a card. Glad she remembered. She probably wanted to forget.
My in-laws also sent me greetings. They expressed how glad they were to have me as a son-in-law and that, after twenty-seven years of marriage to their daughter, they realize I'm not going anywhere. There were a few undertones suggesting that Becky could have done better had she married that electrical engineer who lived in her dorm at Purdue, but by in-large, they were complimentary and admitted I was showing more promise in these recent years, especially in my wardrobe and my ability to whip out a box of Hamburger Helper. They didn't go so far as to call me a "keeper", but "a decent for a guy from Shelburn" will have to suffice. Perhaps the Hallmark poem summarized how they feel about me, and I'll assume it expresses what they might say to my face when we meet next for Thanksgiving dinner.
I am thankful to all of my family and friends who wrote, and believe me, I've read all of your letters and now have these birthday cards stashed in my underwear drawer where, twice a year, I'll read them when I remove a fresh pair for my semi-annual exchange. Thank you for reminding me that hygiene is important!
As for another year . . . well, my son and I are "batching" it for a few days at home and are living off the fat of Taco Bell and Hardees. Logan even wished me a happy birthday yesterday when he came home from school and invited me to watch a movie with him last night . . . . So, thanks to Logan.
Now that I've partied for twenty-four hours, I've got a double-duty gym session planned this morning. All of that pie has to go somewhere.