Happy birthday, Mr. Love! (PG-13)

I could write a blog post every day.

Every day, something happens, or a thought crosses my mind, or I feel sad or not sad or whatever, and I think, “That would make a good blog post.” But I'm usually working, or taking Bella for a walk, or in the car, so I don't write it right then.

If I'm at my desk, I'll make a note of it on a piece of paper and think, “I will write a blog post with these random thoughts this weekend.”

Then the weekend comes.

I start every weekend by catching up on the urgent/important chores—putting finances in order, picking up around the house, trying to do one (or more) of my one million five-minute chores. Writing the blog goes to the bottom of that list.

So now I have:

• 23 snippets of things written on two small pieces of paper—things like “couple at Brown's,” “should - strike from English language?” and “mailman - snow”
• Three email drafts where I copy and paste things I want to put into a blog post, such as Facebook memories, words of wisdom from my daily mindfulness practice and things that, for some reason, I don't write down on the little pieces of paper
• Three draft blog posts that I started and never finished because other topics seemed more important at the time or I ran out of time or they just seemed way too sad
  

This blog post encompasses none of that. (Well, a little of that—one piece of one email draft and one tidbit scratched on one of those little pieces of paper.)

No, this blog post is all about today being Vic's birthday.

On the one hand, he did not care much about his birthday. (As opposed to me, of the birthday season.) So we never did much of anything. Sometimes we went to the zoo or Rocky Mountain National Park. We always went out for lunch. I always made him an applesauce cake (his mother's recipe). I always bought him presents, although it was like pulling teeth to get him to say what he wanted, and often I just transferred money into his account so he could buy an expensive piece of photography equipment.

On that hand, today is just another day. Just as sad as every other day since July 27.

On the other hand, I cared very much about his birthday. I always tried to take the day off, and for the past several years, I took the whole week off. We rarely made plans with anyone else—although he didn't care much about his birthday, he also didn't want to share it with anyone. The only person he ever even considered sharing it with was our niece Margeaux, whose birthday is the day before his. I never chose the restaurant, even though it meant going to Joe's Crab Shack a lot. (No knocks against Joe's. It's just not my jam.) I always tried to find something to do that he would enjoy. One year I took him to Rocky Mountain Bead Fest and let him sit in the snack area while I shopped. Another year I let him drop me off at Rocky Mountain Bead Fest while he went to Bass Pro Shops. The Bead Fest was a big draw for mehim.

So on that hand, today is just a constant reminder that he is no longer here, a black cloud hanging over my head that makes it impossible for me to get much joy out of anything. (Not to mention how upset he would be that he will forever be three-quarters of a century old—not 75 years old, but three-quarters of a century. The story there is that the year my mother turned three-quarters of a century old, she said it all year long, much to Vic's chagrin. The first time I said he was three-quarters of a century old, I think he wanted to murder me.)

But.

I am reminded of one of my morning mindfulness exercises a few weeks ago, which was about the importance of bringing humor into life. It went something like this, with what I found most salient italicized:

Why take things so seriously? What's the point if we can't find some enjoyment in it all? Sometimes we need a reminder that life is precious and fleeting. That there are limitless things to be grateful for. That this, too, shall pass. That there are people in this world at this very moment who are enduring hardships far worse.

With this perspective shift, there's an opportunity to discover a lightness in our hearts. A chance to untie that knot in our forehead and laugh at it all.

Instead of being bounced around by life, we bounce with it.

Approaching life with a sense of lightheartedness is like wearing armor.

After the mindfulness practice (which is something we do at work), we were discussing how much we all loved that morning's message, and one of my co-workers said to me, “You embody that.” I was taken aback for a moment, but then I realized that she was right. And it wasn't just me—this was something Vic and I shared. We always tried to joke our way through adversity. Always tried to carry lightness in our hearts. And Vic, more than anyone, bounced with life. I had never really thought of it as wearing armor, but I guess it is.

Because I have been walking around with a heavy heart—not my customary light heart/suit of armor—and maybe that is why extra sadness has seeped in. Why every little thing sends me spiraling these days. I let Bella out to do her business one cold day and didn't remember to let her in for a half-hour. Vic never would have done that. I forgot to get her dog license—that was Vic's job. And when I went to get it, I forgot to take her proof of rabies vaccination. Vic wouldn't have forgotten. My car decided to scream at me the other day. Vic always had a good idea what was wrong with the car. I had no idea, and the longer the car screamed at me, the more dollar signs collected in my head. A friend of mine offered to drive me home from the car dealership after I dropped off the car. Vic should have done that. And all of these—again—reminded me that he just isn't fucking here. The unfairness of it all (as if life is fair) just makes me break down and sob—usually only for a few seconds, but still, enough that it would really disappoint Vic. He was always proud of my strength and resilience. It's just hard to find that lightness without him by my side.

Fortunately, my co-worker's words came back to me earlier this week: “You embody that.” And it reminded me to put on my armor, bounce with life, find some enjoyment in things, and be grateful. So I close out this super depressing blog post with one of Vic's favorite Dad Jokes and pictures from birthdays past.

First, the Dad Joke: Horse walks into a bar. Bartender says, “Why the long face?” 🤣

(FYI, my favorite joke is the knock-knock joke about the banana. 😆)

And here, a smattering of birthday pics through the years:

Mr. Cool with his ice cream cake.

Mr. Cool with his Snoopy ice cream cake.

A little birthday celebration at my mom's, with a homemade
cake from my sister and my nephew looking on excitedly.

Not pictured: The ice cream cake.
But take note of the Snoopy wrapping paper.

The return of the ice cream cake! Look closely
and you can see Murphy's tail about to catch fire!

Vic and his sister Alice had a long-standing tradition of
going to a Rockies game for his birthday.

We have now switched from ice cream cakes to
applesauce cake and from cats to ... Waggy!
She was always giving sloppy, wet kisses. 😁

Waggy was never far from her dad.

A little help blowing out the candles from
great niece Gigi.

It wouldn't be Vic's birthday without Joe's Crab Shack.

Hiding behind applesauce cake.

Happy birthday, Love! Hope you found some crab legs and cake—complete with Murphy's tail and Waggy's tongue—and are just throwing the ball to Wags at the Rainbow Bridge.

(P.S. Just to be clear, I'm OK. I know this blog post makes things sound dire, but they're really not. I have my Bella. I have my family. I have my friends. I have crochet date night, which conveniently falls on Vic's birthday. So don't worry about me, Kendra and Kristen. And Chandra. And alla y'all. 💗)