Happy Birthday to Me, If It Kills Me

Last weekend, I celebrated a big milestone birthday. I would divulge my age, but thanks to some crazy mental force field, I am physically unable to type the actual decade.

And though some time ago I froze forever at 29, some people, like my Mom and husband Den, do in fact still keep count. Since by their math, this b-day was a big one, I kinda figured/hoped/prayed those who loved me would make a big deal out of it.

After all, I’d been asking Den for a surprise party for years. And this year, my birthday even fell on a Saturday. Talk about gift-wrapping the whole idea in a big red bow.

But, the thing is, my other half is a spontaneous, seat-of-his pants kind of guy, thus not really into all the planning it takes to get twenty to fifty of my family and friends in the same place at the same time. Plus, he thinks birthdays are just another of the insidiously unnecessary holidays fabricated by the evil guilt-mongers at Hallmark.

So, as September 17^th loomed on the horizon, I really didn’t know what to expect. Then, my mom told me she was free on that day since Dad was going to a West Point football game. “Would you like me to babysit so you can go out for your birthday?”

My mind started reeling. Why would my dad be going to a football game on the anniversary of the day his only baby girl was born? And my mom wanted to babysit? Really? What about my big surprise soiree that was supposed to be the size of a wedding?

I told her I didn’t know what my husband’s plans were, and that perhaps she should talk to him. At least that might jog his memory and propel him to make a few phone calls.

Then, a few weeks ago, I overheard her finally offering Den those same babysitting services. What kind of plans could the man possibly have made if the whole sitter thing was still not on lockdown?

To make matters worse, the week before, friends began asking me what I was doing for the big day, but my husband still had not said a word about it to me. No fake invite to someone else’s bash, no elaborate scheme to get me out of the house so guests could come hide in my basement. Not even an indication that I might need to get my nails done.

Next, I found out my dear friend Rory would be jetting off to Paris for work that Saturday, and my sister-in-law was headed to NYC for a girls’ weekend. My brother, who had called to find out if we’d at least be having cake, was supposedly tied up at his son’s football game. Even my best friend said she couldn’t meet for dinner because she had to go to a night game under the lights. For her kindergartner.

Things were either looking gloomy or suspicious, depending on one’s personal level of paranoia. The lines between fact and fiction were blurring, and even my cousin’s sudden surgery to have her gallbladder removed seemed like an elaborate ruse to keep me guessing.

Then came the nail in my excitement coffin. Three days before my birthday, Den confirmed my worst fears by sitting me down to explain to me that he had tried to pull together a party, but that nobody was around. Inside I thought, “That’s what happens when you don’t give people a whole year’s notice!”

He offered to take me on a dinner date a deux, and said he was sending me to Milagro Spa in Red Bank that Saturday for a birthday massage, after which I could have the whole afternoon off. I sulked away feeling unloved and expendable, then wondered if this was yet another red herring? Was he shipping me off to the spa so all my friends could come over my house after all and eagerly await my return? Just in case, I vowed to shower after the massage and reapply my make-up.

But on my birthday morning, my kids greeted me in bed with a cup of coffee, and a drop of gloom. Luke said, “Don’t worry Mom. We have some last minute stuff planned.” Last minute? Ouch. That’s never a good sign.

Then my dad called me from “West Point” and you really could hear the football game happening in the background, so I knew he was in fact actually there.

My b-day was shaping up to be a bloody horror scene from the butcher flick Happy Birthday to Me. I wanted to kill everyone I know.

Still, I relaxed into my glorious Milagro massage, resolved to the fact that on this birthday, the only surprise would be that there were no surprises. Den and I drove off to dinner heading towards Freehold, where the restaurant I requested was located. Sure enough, we pulled up behind the American Hotel, which I only mentioned I wanted to go to three days ago.

Den told the hostess, “Sassa party, please.”

Not, “Sassa party of two,” like he’d normally say.

Light bulbs went off in my head, and it was then that I saw my brother sitting near the middle of a ten-foot long table in the center of the restaurant, flanked by a dozen of my nearest and dearest. They even had balloons advertising my actual age.

Whew. They do love me after all.

My best-friend, who said she wouldn’t have missed it for the world, already had my martini waiting.

My husband said I am impossible to surprise, but that he and my friends sure as hell had fun trying. I was so mad I could hug him.

Happy Birthday to me indeed.