Salami to talk about dancing

"You know what I want for my birthday?" I asked Brad last week.

He gave me a nervous look -- he'd just bought my dream car in December, I had just purchased a new pair of glasses that would have paid most of our income tax bill, and I had recently put a $500 camera on layaway.

"I want to go dancing," I said, hoping to put his mind to rest.

Of course Brad's not a real enthusiastic dancer, so in all actuality it most likely brought a little sweat to his brow.

I had it all planned out. The dance was Saturday, my birthday was Monday. I'd have at least two days to recover from sore joints, aching muscles, and by Monday they would have been able to cast anything I might sprain, strain or break while I was on the dance floor.

He didn't say much -- not even "we'll see," -- to let me know whether he was considering it or not.

Saturday night I found out -- not.

He got home from work a little later than usual. He complained of being overly tired. He said he thought he might be coming down with something. Then he got ready for bed, laid back on the couch and turned on the television. My plans for a night of dancing were squashed like a skunk on the highway the minute he turned the channel to CSI.

I didn't speak to him for the rest of the night. I fixed him a T-bone steak and baked potato, but I didn't speak to him. I would have fixed him liver and onions with brussel sprouts if I had it stocked in my freezer.

I was in bed by 9 p.m.

In fact, I didn't say more than 10 words to him until Sunday afternoon when I yelled, "Stop the truck, there's an antelope!" (We were near Sterling, Colo., looking at oil rigs at the time.) Seven of the words I said to him were "Are we going to Sterling or not?" The other words probably shouldn't be repeated.

As in most situations when I fight with Brad, Brad didn't fight back -- and, as in most situations, when I fight with Brad, it usually takes something as simple as seeing an antelope running along the road to break the ice and stop the fight I'm having with a husband that refuses to lower himself to my fighting standards.

We arrived home late Sunday night, after the trip to Sterling, then Kimball, and back to McCook, we ended up taking my youngest son back to his home in Norton. Sunday night he didn't get a T-bone dinner with baked potato. I told him he could eat some deer salami.

I woke up late Monday, I didn't care that it was my birthday. I didn't care that I was another year older and getting closer and closer to my final destiny. I didn't care that another year had passed on the calendar. I didn't care that I had just celebrated my 43rd (30th) birthday three months ago and here I was 44 (30) already. None of that mattered.

Brad woke up even later than I did, and immediately upon rising, wished me a happy birthday -- a gentle reminder that I was one year closer to the end.

"Thanks a lot," I retorted.

The day went well, the Gazette's happy birthday singing parade made an appearance in my office and serenaded me -- another gentle reminder of the passing of time.

Dawn brought her famous brownies, still warm in the pan. They were delicious, but at my age and in my health, I decided I should stick with one. I placed the pan on the breakroom table, when I went back for a second one, they were all gone. Someone was obviously looking out for me.

I actually made it through the day without too much fuss. Occasionally I'd hear something along the lines of "Oh, today's your birthday! I heard it on the radio."

"Yep," I'd think, "and here all this time you've pretended to be my friend."

I got home an hour or so before Brad did, that night. When he arrived, he brought with him a beautiful bouquet of flowers. I thought it was a very thoughtful gesture -- so much so, that he got to eat deer salami for supper that night as well.