Monday, February 11, 2008

I am the Victim of a Conspiracy!

It involved my wife, my daughter, my oldest friends in the world, trusted members of my church, EVEN MY PRIESTS!!!!!

And I've never been so happy in my life.

My daughter, wife and several friends conspired to throw me a surprise birthday party over the weekend. To be honest I'm only lukewarm on birthdays anyway and as this one was a milestone (millstone) one I was perfectly fine with ignoring it.

The ladies in my life would not hear of it.

As usual, they were right.

I was utterly oblivious. My daughter's insistence on coming home for my birthday even though she was coming home on break from college just three days later. Their insistence on going to church on a day when the weather was wretched. (Blowing snow, whiteouts, wind chills in the minus 10 range). The line of cars parked along our friends street. Nothing tipped me. Till I walked in the door and they all yelled surprise.

I hate surprise parties. But I loved this one. Good friends, good food, PRESENTS! Also my friend of longest standing (since third grade), two of my best friends from high school, and my best friend from college all sent e-mails that alternately made me laugh and cry.


Now can I share a little something here? I'm amazed, astounded and perplexed that anyone would bother going to such lengths (this thing has been in the planning for months apparently) for me.

I find myself utterly unexceptional. A bit boring really. Can't imagine why anyone takes second notice of me. I count each day as lucky that my lady wife hasn't come to her senses and gently (because that is her nature) kicked me to the curb. I'm astounded that such an amazing young woman shares any DNA with me (obviously the superiority of her mother's genetics over balance mine). I can't fathom why people would willingly come out on such a wretched day just to wish me well,and give me some very nice presents to boot!

That's not false modesty. I can't explain it. Haven't got a clue.

They like me. They really like me.



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