by Alice Wasser
On the morning of Sam’s birthday, we drove out to Santa Cruz, in the direction of the ocean. I sang him happy birthday in the car and Sam talked about how he couldn’t believe he was 35 today. “I’m so old,” he said. “I’m only one year away from being in my late thirties.”
“But 36 isn’t late thirties,” I said.
“Yeah, it is,” he argued. “Anything over 35 is late thirties.”
“Well, now that you mention it,” I said, “technically, you’re just a rounding error away from 40. You know that 35 rounds up to 40.”
Sam groaned. “I thought you were supposed to be making me feel good on my birthday, woman! Can’t you lie to me about how young and virile I still am?”
We rolled to a stop at a red light. Sam leaned towards me slightly. “Now you owe me a red light kiss,” he said.
The “red light kiss” is a recent invention of his. He claims he’s unable to drive from point A to point B without being able to kiss me. So when we come to a red light, sometimes he demands a kiss.
So I leaned in to kiss him before the light turned green. That perked him up considerably.
“Whenever I have a birthday,” I said thoughtfully, “I always think about what my ten-year-old self would think of my current life. Like, would they be happy if they saw me right now?”
At my last birthday, I think my answer to that question would have been a resounding no. Maybe next year, the answer will be yes.
“My ten-year-old self, huh?” Sam said. “I’m going to have to say that I think my ten-year-old self wouldn’t have been too psyched about being a quadriplegic.”
“Oh,” I mumbled, realizing what a stupid thing I had said.
“However,” he went on. “My ten-year-old self was an idiot. I have a great life. I’ve got a kickass job and I’m marrying a woman that I love. Not too bad for 35.”
I continue to be in amazement of Sam’s ability to find happiness in anything. I’ll bet there are people out there who would be super depressed in his situation, but he’s never depressed. I think he truly believes he has a great life. Which makes me feel pretty good about myself.
Anyway, it turns out that it wasn’t beach weather after all, so I didn’t have to worry about a bathing suit. We both wore pants and jackets. We strolled along the boardwalk, which smelled really nauseatingly of fried food. I asked Sam if he wanted to get that Twinkie, but apparently he was kidding about that. I was a little disappointed, because I wanted to taste (or at least see) a fried Twinkie, but I was too embarrassed to order one for myself.
(So much for the all-Twinkie diet.)
“I haven’t been on a roller coaster since I was a kid,” I commented, as we passed by this ultra-old roller coaster. It looked like it was about to collapse any second into a big pile of dust.
“I don’t think it would be too wise for me to get on this thing with a broken neck,” Sam said. “But you can go ahead if you want.”
“That’s okay.”
“Come on, go for it.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Sam grinned at me. “What’s wrong? Scared?”
“Did it ever occur to you I might be pregnant?”
Sam’s jaw dropped open. I had been joking, of course. I actually just finished my period, so there was no way I could have been pregnant. And in general, Sam isn’t able to ejaculate, so it’s not likely. And also, I’m on birth control pills, which are supposed to improve my skin but don’t.
Before his imagination got too carried away, I quickly said, “I’m kidding.”
“Oh,” he said.
I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed.
“Too bad,” he said. “That would have been an awesome birthday present.”
Disappointed, I guess. Damn.
(Actually, no, it’s good. I want kids in the near future too, so I’m glad we’re on the same page. I decided at that moment that I’m going to stop my birth control pills. I hate pills anyway.)
We went inside and played several rounds of Skee-ball. Is there any better game than Skee-ball? Sam declared himself the Skee-ball master and proceeded to kick my butt in several head-to-head games. Considering he has limited use of his hands, he had pretty wicked aim. We collected 58 tickets, then went to check out what prizes we could get with them. Unfortunately, our best options were between a ring pop and a slinky.
“Look at that!” Sam said excitedly, looking down at one of the prizes in the glass case. “For only 300 tickets, you could get a 4-D horse! A four-dimensional horse!” He looked back up at me and grinned. “How do you think they managed to incorporate the dimension of ‘time’ into that little box?”
I bent down to get a closer look at the 4-D horse. “It says that the fourth dimension is ‘details.’”
“Details!” Sam snorted. “Details doesn’t count as a dimension!” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “It’s almost like the people who make these plastic toys don’t have a good grasp of general relativity.”
We ended up getting the slinky. God knows what we’ll do with it. Maybe it will come in handy if we find a real 4-D horse that can take us back into the 1980s.
After that, we went back outside and Sam suggested going on the ferris wheel. I wasn’t very excited, but he really wanted to do it. He said they’d hold his wheelchair at the bottom. Honestly, if it were me, I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving my wheelchair with some random guy, but he’s very trusting. Maybe it’s a Midwest thing. I was relieved when there were steps to get to the ferris wheel and Sam decided it wasn’t worth it.
After the failed attempt at the ferris wheel, we went out to dinner. The waiter gave us a secluded booth and Sam got out of his chair to slide in next to me. Honestly, he couldn’t keep his hands off me. I don’t know if it was the fresh air or what, but he was all over me while we were waiting for our food. We were basically making out like a couple of teenagers, which is not totally unusual for us.
When I looked up for a minute, I noticed we were getting quite a few stares. Oh well.
“You are so incredibly sexy,” Sam whispered in my ear. “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.”
“Okay,” I said, “but you know, maybe we shouldn’t have sex right here in the restaurant.”
Sam laughed and pulled away from me. “Sorry, I guess I got carried away.”
I smiled. “That’s okay. It’s your birthday.”
“You think we’ll still be like this when we’re 50?” he asked me in a thoughtful voice.
“Like what?”
“You know,” he said. He grinned at me: “Madly in love.”
I had to laugh at the expression, although I knew his question was earnest. I guess at some point in every relationship, the initial infatuation wears off. I can’t imagine that Sam will be tearing my clothes off with his teeth when we’re 50. But I love him so much and I want to believe that won’t fade away.
“I think we’ll still be madly in love when we’re 50,” I said.
“Good,” he said as he went back to kissing and groping me in a totally inappropriate way for a public restaurant. I didn’t stop him. I mean, it’s his birthday.
May 4:
Donna dragged me out after work to look at wedding dresses. There was a shop that sold them about 15 minutes from the office and she wouldn’t leave me alone till I agreed to meet her there. I emailed Sam that I was going to be late because I was going to look at wedding dresses and he was really excited.
“Buy whatever you like,” he said. “I don’t care what it costs.”
(Big surprise.)
I was less excited. Remember how when we got engaged, I decided I needed to lose 30 pounds before I got married? Well, so far, I’ve gained five more pounds.
Yes, you heard me right.
I really don’t know how it’s possible I gained so much weight. I can only tell myself that it’s water weight for so long. I don’t think I’ve been eating that badly, but maybe I have. Maybe it’s the fact that I’
m in my thirties now and my metabolism has slowed down. My mother is pretty overweight, even more than me, and I’m scared it’s just in my genes.
In any case, I was not exactly in the mood to try on plus-sized wedding dresses. But Donna is relentless when she wants something.
When we got to the store, Donna picked out a few white dresses for me that she thought would look good. Donna is more stylish than I am, although not by a huge amount. Still, I trust her taste more than mine.
The first dress was strapless and really puffy. I feel like my arms are too heavy and I hate the way I look in sleeveless stuff, but most dresses are strapless or sleeveless. At least I have big boobs, which are now even bigger, so that helped a little. Although in all honesty, maybe you can’t be too rich or too thin, but you can definitely have boobs that are too big. Mine are definitely bordering on too big—they were popping out of the strapless, puffy dress.
“You look so pretty, Millie!” Donna squealed.
“Ugh,” I said. I looked at the price-tag and gasped. “Oh my God!”
“What are you worried about?” Donna said. “You know Sam will pay for it.”
“Yeah, he will,” I agreed. “But that doesn’t mean he should.”
One of the young salesgirls, whose name-tag said Kim, saw us trying on expensive dresses and rushed over to help us. Kim was so tiny that two of her could have fit in the dress I was wearing.
“That looks amazing on you,” Kim told me.
“Mmm,” I said noncommittally.
I watched Kim’s eyes run up and down the dress and then finally rest on my ring finger. Her eyes widened. She was probably amazed that a guy would give someone like me a ring like that. “Wow, he’s a keeper,” Kim said.
“He’s really cute too,” Donna chimed in. “You know who he looks just like? Paul Rudd.”
I shot her a look. I don’t get why when somebody is really good-looking, there’s this compulsion to compare them to an actor or actress. Sam just looks like Sam. Why does he have to look like some movie star?
Although admittedly, now that they mentioned it, he does look a bit like Paul Rudd.
(Even though I’m not good-looking, lately people have been telling me that I look like that singer Adele. I don’t think anyone actually even knows what Adele looks like, other than the fact that she’s fat and has red hair, because in her photos and videos, she’s always shrouded in darkness. So basically, saying that a woman looks like Adele is a blanket compliment for any fat girl, especially one with red hair like yours truly.)
Kim picked out some more dresses for me and I tried them on and they all looked terrible, but Kim and Donna both thought they all looked great. I needed someone really objective to come with me and be honest. I need to get myself a stylish older sister or something. Otherwise, I’m going to end up looking horrible on my wedding day.
My wedding day. My God, I can’t believe I’m getting married!
Why do I keep thinking something is going to screw it up?
May 5:
After looking at wedding dresses yesterday, I really felt motivated to get back on track with my diet. Somehow just eating lots of salads isn’t helping me. Probably because I’m so hungry after only eating a salad for lunch that I have to immediately devour a bag of chips from the vending machine. And then go to the café in the lobby for a brownie.
I wasn’t too keen on trying any of the fad diets. Some of them are really ridiculous. For example, there’s one where you eat nothing but cabbage soup. How could a person exist on nothing but cabbage soup? I read about another one called the lemonade diet, which sounds delicious, except in reality, it involves drinking nothing other than a lemon juice concoction with maple syrup and cayenne pepper, salt water, and herbal or laxative teas.
And then, of course, there is the popular Atkins diet, where you give up carbs. But I love carbs.
One diet that sort of appealed to me was the baby food diet. Basically, you get to eat all the baby food you want. I liked the idea of getting to eat all the food I wanted, and when I went to the supermarket after work, some of the food labels for Gerber sounded really delicious. Like “banana custard.” Mmm.
So I went a little crazy and bought about 30 jars of baby food. I figured that some of them would probably be disgusting, so I needed to sample a wide variety. But I was feeling cautiously optimistic about this diet.
Sam came home just as I was unloading all the jars of baby food onto the dining room table. It took him a minute to realize what I was doing, and his eyes got really wide.
“Millie,” he breathed. “Are you…?”
“I’m not pregnant,” I told him quickly, before he got too excited. “It’s a new diet where I eat nothing but baby food.”
“Oh,” he said and scratched his head. He seemed some combination of disappointed and perplexed.
“You didn’t really think I was pregnant, did you?”
He shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “Maybe…”
I put my hands on my hips. “So you think that upon finding out I was pregnant, the first thing I would do would be to go out and buy a bunch of baby food for toddlers?”
“In my defense,” he said, “it’s just as logical as thinking that you were actually going to eat the baby food.”
(Touché.)
I was actually really excited about this diet. Some of the flavors really did sound pretty tasty. I picked up a container of banana custard, and dug a spoon into the yellow liquid. I took a bite.
I clasped a hand over my mouth. “Oh my God. This is horrible.”
I ran to the garbage and spit out the baby food that was in my mouth, while Sam laughed at me. How could banana custard be this terrible? Those poor babies.
“Maybe some of the others are better,” I managed, after I gargled with some water.
Sam shook his head. “Why don’t you just join Weight Watchers or something?”
I frowned at him. “So you do think I need to lose weight! I knew it!”
His mouth fell open. “You… I mean, you said that you needed to… you know that I think you…” He groaned. “Damn, I really walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
Despite everything, I had to laugh at how uncomfortable he looked. Even though he obviously thought I was fat.
Over the next hour, I realized a very important truth: baby food does not taste good.
I also learned that it is a very powerful laxative.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the bathroom again.
May 7:
We had a big meeting at work today, in which I was forced to participate. My boss Rich always forces me to go to these meetings and I never have anything to contribute. I always end up zoning out and suppressing the urge to start texting Sam.
Even if I actually have something useful to say, I can’t bring myself to make comments in front of such a big crowd. In case you can’t tell, I’m a pretty introverted person. I hate public speaking. I always considered myself very shy, although not cripplingly so.
(It seems like it should be impossible for an unattractive person to be really outgoing, but I actually have met a lot of outgoing unattractive people. I’m just not one of them.)
Jake Winston was at the meeting. I was already there when he arrived and he sat right next to me, even though there were still plenty of empty seats at the conference table. I still can’t believe Jake said that he used to have a crush on me. Sometimes I think I must’ve imagined it.
Between you and me, I’ve had a couple of fantasies about him lately too. I mean, he is incredibly handsome, objectively speaking. It’s all completely innocent fun and entirely in my head.
(Don’t tell Sam.)
As usual, I didn’t say a word during the meeting, but Jake was very vocal. I guess as a junior executive, he has to be outgoing and aggressive. In all honesty, his comments weren’t totally necessary, and I got the feeling that he was talking just because he liked being the center of attention. I’ve been at a couple of meetings
with Sam, who isn’t like that at all. Sam is definitely really outgoing, but he doesn’t say much at meetings unless he actually has something important to contribute. He’s not as much of a go-getter businessman as Jake is, I guess.
At one point in the meeting, Rich made what he claimed would be a five-minute PowerPoint presentation on some of the data, but just went on and on until I wanted to shoot myself in the head. While struggling to keep from nodding off in the darkness of the conference room, I suddenly felt something against my foot. At first, I was scared that the company’s unfortunate rodent problem had returned, but then I realized that Jake had nudged my foot with his. I looked up at him, and he mimed snoring, then winked and grinned at me. I smiled back. It was enough to keep me awake for the remainder of the meeting.
After the meeting was over, Jake nudged my foot again. “Hey, Matilda,” he said. “Let’s celebrate this meeting finally being over by getting some lunch. I know a great place.”
“Oh,” I said. I thought for a minute. Sam had mentioned something about us having lunch together, but it was already noon and he hadn’t called me. He was probably too busy. “Sure.”
As I followed Jake to the elevators, I briefly considered calling Sam and inviting him along, but I remembered how awkward it was last time the three of us went out, so I decided not to bother.
We took Jake’s car and he drove us to a small restaurant that was actually a bit far from work. Sam and I usually stayed nearby when we went out to lunch. I was going to protest, but Jake wouldn’t tell me where we were going till we actually got there. “Trust me, you’re going to like this place.”
It turned out to be this hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. It was tiny, dark, and disturbingly romantic. “It’s very authentic,” Jake told me. “It’s just like the food I got during my trips to Italy.”
“Trips” as in the plural of “trip.” I like how Jake managed to mention the fact that he had been to Italy multiple times.
