About a month ago I asked Chris what he wanted to eat on his birthday. The planner micro-managing maniac of a girlfriend in me was already chomping at the bit to get the birthday show on the road.
“Burgers and a really good milkshake.”
A humble request—I love this boy.
Burgers are for birthdays, your birthdays.
Oreo Cookies and Cream milkshakes are for birthdays (never mind we didn’t think it was quite cold enough. I guess the shake maker didn’t think to ask the b.day boy his preferences on shake temperatures).
The chopped salad was for me. It was not my birthday; my feeble attempt at health, lame, I know.
On your birthday you sip your shake and let yourself be photographed. It is your birthday. You must document accordingly.
On your birthday you accept the free birthday cupcake happily
and then eat another dessert, one your friends snuck in from Black Hound Bakery, so classy, complete with candle. You pocket the comped cupcake for tomorrow.
Tomorrow is not your birthday. You will pretend it is. I’ll let it slide because I love you.