If anyone ever referred to me as “high maintenance”, I’d have to kick them straight in the no-no bits. There is no time in my life that anyone could ever consider me high maintenance. Especially not now! I love thrifting, I refuse to buy any article of clothing at full price, I use store brand coffee creamer, and I’ve worn the same pair of flats for about… oh… 5 years now.
When it comes to my birthday? I haven’t made a big deal out of it since having kids. Any time I try it seems like something bad happens, so I’ve learned to just stay home on the couch where it’s safe. I’m not even bitter about it! I like to relax. I like TV. I like my couch. I only have two requests, and trust me- they are not lofty.
My two birthday requests are Taco Bell, and cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory. Yes, seriously- my birthday meal of choice is Taco Bell. It’s friggin’ delicious. The cheesecake is a little harder to come by, only because there is only one TCF in our area, and it’s nearly an hour away- BUT- it is near enough to where Thomas works for him to drive and pick some up during his lunch break.
There is no confusion about these requests. I don’t drop hints. I flat out SAY, I want this and this and that is what I want and it’s so simple that it had BETTER happen.
Last year, my birthday cheesecake was 13 days late. THIRTEEN DAMN DAYS. I thought after the shit I gave Thomas for making me wait so long to partake in my birthday tradition would be enough to motivate him to never let that kind of thing happen again. He should have been bringing it home early and shoving it into the freezer, just in case something happened that would prevent him from securing my birthday cheesecake and opening the gates of hell to be unleashed upon himself. Self-preservation, y’all. It’s an instinct we all have!
Well, today is the big day. The day I turn 30 and while people always say it’s “just another day” and you “won’t feel any different”- I’ve spent a lot of time defining a large part of me by my twenties. Hell, I even named my first book after them! I have been a “20-something” for so long, that no longer being one doesn’t really feel natural. It’s weird. I’m sure I’ll grow to love being in my… ugh… thirties… but for today, I need to be comforted. By cheesecake. My birthday cheesecake.
I do for everyone else every day all year- this is the one time I ask them to do for me, and I think it’s a pretty simple request!
We’d heard about “snowpocalypse” coming for a week before my birthday. We all knew the projections were estimating more accumulation than anything we’d seen in years, and we knew that meant this whole damn state was going to shut the fuck down, so I figured being the reasonably intelligent man who had learned his lesson and didn’t want to get his taint sporked that my husband is- he would plan ahead and secure my birthday cheesecake early. He didn’t.
There is no birthday cheesecake, and thanks to the snow- I won’t be getting any, either.
I sat on the couch this morning after waking up 30 years old and cried. Over cheesecake. On my birthday. Who does that?? It’s just cheesecake, what’s the big deal?
I’ve been sitting here trying to figure it out for what feels like hours; hours that I should probably be spending enjoying the day, but I’m not. When is a cheesecake more than a cheesecake? Pretty much always. Cheesecake, for me at least, has always signified something bigger. A celebration, a congratulations, an anniversary, a pick-me up. Every cheesecake in my adult life has been a celebration cheesecake. Without the cheesecake, is there no celebration? Is there nothing else worth being happy about today?
My health? My children? Having a warm home with food and clothes?
Yeah yeah yeah. I could and should be happy about all of those things and not get hung up on a piece of friggin’ cheesecake, but I’m a woman, and sometimes we just like to bitch.
The moral of the story is: not getting Cheesecake is not the end of the world, but you should never forget to give a woman her cheesecake if you don’t want your world to.
Every. single. time. pic.twitter.com/qxy23khtts
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I guess their taste buds are just THAT advanced. pic.twitter.com/yqzIQHzHS9
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