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I married a smart man. My husband Stretch went to an Ivy League school, had a good career on Wall Street and dispenses pearls of wisdom as often as he flosses. He seems to have an answer to any question or concern I throw his way.
Like this one: “Expiration dates are a marketing gimmick,’ he says as I smell cottage cheese that passed its sell-by date a month ago, and indeed, smells fine.
“That ink cartridge is still good,” Stretch tells me as the printer’s Ink Running Low sign flashes ominously. When I complain that the windshield in our car keeps fogging up, he gives me a lesson on condensation, and something called the dew point. "It’s science and nature,” he concludes with a flourish.
He’s a master with the remote control. He can pack a suitcase in 10 minutes flat, with no stress, with exactly the right number of shirts, boxers, sweaters and pants whether we’re going away for a weekend or a month.
So why, I ask you, did this clever man give me exactly nothing for my birthday in June? I’m not sure which is worse, getting nothing or the small bowl he gave me two years after we started dating.
That gift was presented right around the time when I thought he might propose so I unwrapped the present slowly, trying to hide my excitement. True, the package was a bit large for a ring. But maybe there’s a lot of tissue paper, I thought. Other years he’s opted to give me negligées which seem more like a present for him than me. I’ve told him on multiple occasions — ever since the bowl surprise — that he can’t go wrong with jewelry.
Aren’t I as predictable as condensation and the dew point? Maybe Stretch is too practical to understand how much my birthday means to me. In his opinion, it’s just another day of the year. He knows he loves me. I know he loves me. So, what’s for breakfast?
It must be said that my husband’s expectations on birthdays were never a big deal. They could be celebrated on the nearest convenient day, and by celebrated, I mean, someone jams a candle in a store-bought cake and offers up a pair of boxers in a resealable plastic bag. I threw him his first birthday party when he turned 60. So maybe it’s that he lacks the nostalgia factor.
Where I come from (as I’ve recounted for his listening pleasure many times) birthdays were like holy days. My mother’s mood could be made or ruined depending on how well my father did in gift-giving. The year he gave her tennis socks was not a good birthday. The year he gave her diamond earrings, my mother’s smile lasted for weeks.
But I also think it’s safe to ask, “How can the love of my life who supposedly ‘gets me’ not get that where I come from, birthdays do mean something?” At least as much as watching the Masters means to him i.e. a weekend of undisturbed TV viewing where he sits gripped watching a little white ball roll into a hole, or not, while I keep my eye on his snack supply. I know it may sound petty, but it’s only one day a year that I’m asking for princess treatment.
My husband is straightforward about his needs. In terms of his love language, he only needs quality time and physical touch (ideally simultaneously). I like to receive all five of them in limited doses — touch, time, presents, service and words of affirmation. I guess you could say, I came into this marriage with birthday baggage. I want to feel special all day that one day a year, or at least for a good chunk of it.
This year we were apart on my birthday. He was in New York, and I had flown to London to help my daughter who lives there with her baby girl (18 months) and very new baby boy. When my birthday arrived, I got a text from my husband asking if I’d seen his Outdoor Research jacket and an article about how we must lift weights as we age.
When I fumed at my birthday lunch with my girlfriends, each of whom arrived bearing gifts (they know the rules), they jumped in with similar tales of birthday woe. One friend got a filing cabinet (now divorced and remarried), another snow tires (also divorced and remarried, just saying) and another a dust buster. She’s still married but clearly is a saint.
My friend Ella remembered when her husband had asked her what she wanted for her birthday. “Oh, nothing really,” she replied, never thinking he’d take her at her word. He took her at her word. Maybe having the Y gene means you don’t get the birthday gifting gene.
My friend Georgia has been married for 30 years. We share a birthday and used to have parties together as kids. This year, like me, she was not with her husband on her/my/our birthday. When she landed at Logan Airport, he sweetly came to pick her up. In the car driving home, he told her in an exasperated tone that he hadn’t found anything for her birthday. She described his demeanor as annoyed by this once-a-year event, i.e. When is it going to end? And so he suggested that, since they had both been traveling, he’d pay the dog’s kennel bill. For her birthday present.
Georgia knew what she was getting into. On her 30th birthday a few decades earlier, a few days before their wedding, this same husband gifted her a mini trampoline. On her 60th he did manage to hit one out of the park. “I got a beautiful ring,” she says holding up her hand to show the glinting stone.
“Men aren’t like us,” my wise friend Sara said. “They don’t think like us, and the sooner we realize that the happier we’ll be.” She has a point, but I’d also be happier if I got a piece of jewelry on my birthday.
Are you married to someone who does NOT make a big deal of your birthday? Does it matter to you? Let us know in the comments below.
Stocksy
Follow Article Topics: Relationships
