The Best Day Ever

Today was the most perfect of perfect days. It was, in fact, my thirty-fifth birthday and since you all know my feelings on birthdays, I took it upon myself to put together a fantastic itinerary for the occassion.

After a morning Dunkin' Donuts run, and helping Hubby get the kids ready for a morning at the local play-space (read: petri dish) I packed my bags and headed to the fancy-pants New York Sports Club in the neighboring town. I decided to treat myself to a day pass for a couple of classes and a workout not in my basement clad in my old man shorts and Aunt Jemima bandana. Never fear, I did manage to cobble together a reasonably fashionable, reasonably ass-covering ensemble.

It was incredible. "Strength with Danny" at ten o'clock turned out to be a kick-ass workout led by the queeniest of queens who, in between bouts of singing along to Erasure's Gimme Gimme Gimme, would shout out questions like, "What are we drinking on New Year's and who's driving us home?" A-fucking-mazing. I also got to enjoy my forgotten favorite gym past time - listening to other people's conversations and judging them. With thinly veiled horror, I listened to a young squid in the weight room discuss how he bought his current fling an industrial sized tub of animal crackers because she loves them and it was cheap and too bad she was so bad in bed. I was also reminded of the territoriality of fifty-something year-old, male, suburban, gym nuts. I get it, Gramps, you're in shape, now get your towel and water bottle off the two other weight benches you're not sweating all over and, while you're at it, cut-off shirts stopped being appropriate for you twenty years ago.

Once I was done showering at the gym (newsflash - cover that up Granny, not one wants to see the goods), I headed to Dunkin Donuts again (yes, I am a junkie) and then over to the bookstore. Thank you to the genius who decided to put coffee shops in bookstores, making it perfectly acceptable to wander the aisles with a beverage. The only way it could get better is if said beverage was wine, which I did see once in Washington DC and it almost made me move there.

Speaking of wine, I then stopped at the local wine and cheese emporium to pick up some pink bubbly and stinky cheese. I also almost had to stop and buy my own cake after Hubby admitted last night he forgot to order my favorite confection in the world which, sadly, comes from the A&P (shut up, it has CANNOLI filling*). Apparently, he has learned on the flower front, but not on the birthday front. If this happens again, he'd better learn to run.

But the nicest thing I did for myself today was to cut myself some slack. I fought the impulse to whirl around the house like a dervish screaming about the toys littering every surface or the mountain of unfolded, clean laundry which is the result of the holidays. Instead, I decided to enjoy the fact that I am thirty-five and celebrate all that entails. I was running on the treadmill to Janet Jackson's Black Cat and I realized I am stronger now than when I used to run to it at nineteen. This thirty-five year-old body has been to the pyramids as well as carried three babies. I enjoy being at a point in my life where I don't really care what anyone else thinks and heels are almost always appropriate, being a woman of a certain age - except, of course, when alone my children since it prevents the sprint up the monkey bars to prevent a spine-crushing fall. Maybe having the perspective of my mother's short life, I want to appreciate it all while I can. I feel like I have finally tried on the garment, Woman, and it fits without the restrictive Girl undergarments.

I want everyone who reads this blog to plan a day for themselves , birthday or not, filled entirely with things you love. Everyone owes it to themselves to have one day that celebrates their existence - whether their husband supports said efforts or rolls his eyes and mutters something about "fabulous" under his breath (That's right, I am. And You. Love. It.). And to tell yourself, "You know what? I rock."**

*Pictured, left, is the cake he frantically ordered last night after our fight, begging the bakery to hook him up. I forbade Hubby to take a picture of what the cake looked later. This shot taken after we cut the kids a few pieces. Mean Mommy + alcohol + cake = Jaws-type feeding frenzy

**And did I end the day drunk, watching the Sex and the City movie for the tenth time and crying my eyes out? You bet your ass I did. And, GODDAMN, if cable wasn't hooking me up as Woman of the Year AND Two Weeks Notice were both on! And if you don't know Woman of the Year is a Katherine Hepburn movie (and that her first name is spelled with a K) you must attend Mean Mommy's Film School immediately. If Con Air had been on I might have had a seizure.