Wallowing In A Trough of Pessimistic Anticipation and Potential Self Pity

For the first time ever I have managed not to remind my children and husband of my upcoming birthday. Every year in the days beforehand I say to myself “Don’t mention the birthday! DON’T MENTION THE BIRTHDAY!”

I’m kind of a masochist and want to test them, to see if they’ll think of it all by themselves... or in the case of the children, I want to know if my parents in law have remembered to subtly prep the kids to at least make me a little card or a drawing of a flower.

But every year I blurt it out: “Please don’t forget my birthday next week!” Invariably they had, proving that I was right all along.

So I’m determined to keep my mouth shut this time. I’m absolutely determined. Even if it takes the fantasy of a young, handsome, muscle-bound New Zealander nailing a plank of four by two* over my gob to keep me silent.

* Four by two is a rough plank of timber used for absolutely everything in New Zealand, whether it be moulded into a sleek and graceful America’s Cup winning yacht, or carved into an All Black’s thigh, a sweaty, virile sculptor lovingly chiselling the muscle definition, smoothing the powerful, longline thighs and flanks with trembling fingertips ...