SASEs, Special Days, and Sundays

SASEs

The day before I left for my Christmas break, I got my first Self-Addressed, Stamped Envelope from one of the Literary Journals I sent my first essay to a few weeks ago. The envolope held a very nice, but completely impersonal, rejection letter, which offered me a discounted subscription to the Journal. Thanks, but no thanks. I wanted you to send me a check, not the other way around.

A Special Day

Yesterday was filled with contradictions. I walked into my office and immediately knew it was going to be the most excellent 31st birthday I would ever have. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

It started well, with a paper garland of balloons strung behind my desk and a sweet card wishing me a wonderful day from all of my co-workers. If I had to be at work on my birthday, at least they were making it as special as possible. All morning my phone lit up with calls and my inbox dinged with emails from family and friends, telling me to have a happy birthday. I was happy and content. It was a good birthday.

And then it wasn't. Work got me down. There were issues with the house. My Love was working and I wasn't going to see him. I was stressed out. I cried. I worried. I forgot it was my birthday. Or rather, I wanted it to not be my birthday. I was angry that I was stressed out, worried and angry on my special day. I wanted a do-over, to take it back and start again.

Eventually, I talked everything out, I let it go, and I celebrated what was left of my day.

Happy Ending Sundaes

After work, I talked to My Love and he helped me to remember that worrying wouldn't solve anything. He told me to let everything go, and have a good evening. So, I went to dinner with some friends I hadn't seen in a while. I drank wine, laughed, and enjoyed being out. I ate a great meal, and stopped eating when I wasn't hungry anymore. I suffered through a Benningan's Happy Birthday song, and then I shared a free birthday sundae with my friends. I took three bites, savoring every one of them, and then I put my spoon down. It was a great birthday dinner.

And the specialness didn't end there. I came home, ran a hot bath, complete with bubbles and candles, and slid into the water with a book. By the time I crawled into bed, I had to confess that even if it wasn't the greatest 31st birthday, it was my 31st birthday, and it was good--like an excellent cake with a not-so-great filling. The beginning was sweet and inviting, the middle made me gag, but the icing was just enough to make me forget the bad parts.