Thursday, April 5, 2012

Happy 31st Birthday, Matt!

As it would turn out, Feliz Navidad is neither French nor Happy Birthday.  Trying to outdo last year's birthday cookie (I'm notorious for buying giant cookies with messages scrawled in butter cream icing), I thought it would be witty to wish my husband a happy birthday in the French language.  Unfortunately, the Internet on my cell phone would not work while in line at Mrs. Fields', so after I came to realize that Feliz Navidad would not properly showcase my bilingual abilities, I was left with no choice but to retreat and find a different gift.  My husband, who by far is the most difficult man for which to shop, always returns every gift I purchase because it is either: a) too flashy, or b) ridiculous

To commemorate my current OCD obsession, I thought something along the lines of UVA/UVB protection would be just the ticket.  Who doesn't need a practical pair of Ray Ban aviators?

They'll be back on the shelf by midday tomorrow 
In three short years I have found myself surrounded by the two greatest loves of my life.  If you asked me at 23 what my five-year-plan looked like, I never would have fathomed something this marvelous.

Here's another blast from the past: a story I wrote just months before meeting my future-husband. My, has he changed me ;)

Any Given Sundae

I can’t even commit to an ice cream flavor. My friends point this out as if one must be monogamous with their scoop of cookie dough. I know that holding up the line at Baskin Robbins is borderline infuriating to all those who maintain serious relationships with dairy, but come on folks, there are 31 flavors. I’ve never been one to discriminate.

I usually go with the richest I can find. The only time you will ever hear me admit to love at first sight is when my eyes connect with decadent, creamy chocolate swirled with thick fudge and smooth, mouth-melting caramel. Love, I’m telling you---genuine, unconditional love. My issues with men may appear synonymous with my issues with ice cream, but I dispute both claims. After all, I have never had difficulty committing to Ben and/or Jerry.

So what if I’m 23 and prefer the allure of single-dom? Relationships inevitably turn rocky, and the only rocky road I care to travel is the one melting in my cone. To commit is to sacrifice the rest of the male population; the other 30 flavors.

I’m sorry that I don’t go all cherries jubilee over the idea of marriage, but truth be told, a lifetime with one single, solitary person seems quite frightening and unappealing to me. What happens when it turns bland; when I wake up every day to a mistake I fear I made? What if I don’t want Chunky Monkey for the rest of my life?

My friend Liz has no problem with commitment. She may as well have a framed marriage certificate declaring her union with mint chocolate chip. Their twenty-year bond has only been tested on occasion when she feels the undeniable urge to commit sherbert adultery. Liz, obviously, has never sampled the Baskin Robbins’ buffet. Why experiment, she figures, when she already has a perfectly adequate selection? Needless to say, her boyfriend feels the same.

I’ve done the whole relationship bit---don’t get me wrong. I’ve gone to the movies, held the hands, and even adopted the nauseating pet names like every boyfriend/girlfriend is somehow programmed to do. But when the new turns to the ordinary and the ordinary becomes the old, I find it impossible not to bail. Just as some are programmed to use the word “pookie-bear” on repeat, I am genetically pre-disposed to ordering the flavor of the week. Bubble gum chunks inside of raspberry laced French vanilla? They can really do that? Double-scoop me.

I suppose life would have a pleasant mediocrity if I always stuck with a primary flavor. Like they say, you can’t miss something you’ve never had. I am sure Liz will never realize there’s a whole other world of cookies’n’cream out there just waiting to be devoured, but I know that’s okay with her. Some of us were meant to be “thirty-one flavor” kind of gals---some of us were meant for the latter number.

As the sighs get louder and the boy behind the counter with the ridiculous striped pink hat once again asks for my order, I can’t help but ponder what the real rush seems to be.

I finally go with the Jamoca Almond Fudge, yet quickly decide after two solid licks that this will be a short-term relationship between the two of us. After all, there are too many fish in the sea and just way, way too many cartons in the freezer. 

1 comment:

  1. Ah, Stefanie; metaphors aside, I do hope that this earlier writing was an affectation of youth. I do agree that if one paused to think of the millions of possible mates in the world, that you would go crazy wondering if just over the next hill was the perfect one. I believe there are thousands of perfect mates though, so why keep looking if you come across one. You found your "perfect flavor", didn't you?

    Your Kentucky cousin,
    Ric Petty