Happy Birthday Wilma
Today is WIlma's birthday. I haven't bought her a gift. I haven't prepared a special dinner. I haven't sent her a card. I haven't even send her an e-mail. And I'm not going to.
I hated Wilma's birthdays. She always expected so much, and I always fell short. Not that she wanted all kinds of expensive presents. She wanted the day to feel special. SHE wanted to feel special. And no matter what I did, it was never quite enough.
The best I did was the night I proposed. I took her out for dinner, and gave her the initial gift, which was a two tickets to a dance performance (I generally hate modern dance as much or more than I hate musicals, but I was willing to go anyway) and a copy of Emily Dickinson's poetry (it's her birthday today too).
Then we went for a walk down by the waterfront, till we found a place to sit down. It happened to be beside the submarine used in the film K-19, which was shot here a few years ago (Wilma and I always said we would watch that movie on our anniversary sometime, but we never did). The snow was gently falling, and I took out the ring we had picked out together and asked her to marry me. Then, to celebrate, I had my own rendition of communion: port and Belgian wafers.
Afterwards, we went back to my place and exchanged oral sex... except, that just when she started, she realized she had a cold sore. At first, I was disappointed that she wasn't going to finish the blow job, but as the blood returned to my brain, I realized that larger issues involved. We srcambled to find a doctor's number, got a prescription that cost $100 (didn't have a medical plan back then, and she didn't want to put it on her parents plan) and thank God, nothing developed.
But even after all that, she picked at how it wasn't as good as I could have done, or that didn't make her feel special enough. Years later.
My reaction to this was two fold. Inside, I felt like shit, like I was an inadequate husband. Outside, I got angry and yelled about how she was a spoiled brat who expected too much of everyone, including herself, and that if she was just more realistic, she would be happier. Of course, this didn't help the situation any, and can be chalked up to another thing on my list of things I did wrong.
I tried to make things special, I swear I tried, but eventually, it became a resentful, despairing kind of try. Which of course she picked up on and added to the failure of any of my attempts.
So Happy Fucking Birthday Wilma. I hope you're happier on your own.
I hated Wilma's birthdays. She always expected so much, and I always fell short. Not that she wanted all kinds of expensive presents. She wanted the day to feel special. SHE wanted to feel special. And no matter what I did, it was never quite enough.
The best I did was the night I proposed. I took her out for dinner, and gave her the initial gift, which was a two tickets to a dance performance (I generally hate modern dance as much or more than I hate musicals, but I was willing to go anyway) and a copy of Emily Dickinson's poetry (it's her birthday today too).
Then we went for a walk down by the waterfront, till we found a place to sit down. It happened to be beside the submarine used in the film K-19, which was shot here a few years ago (Wilma and I always said we would watch that movie on our anniversary sometime, but we never did). The snow was gently falling, and I took out the ring we had picked out together and asked her to marry me. Then, to celebrate, I had my own rendition of communion: port and Belgian wafers.
Afterwards, we went back to my place and exchanged oral sex... except, that just when she started, she realized she had a cold sore. At first, I was disappointed that she wasn't going to finish the blow job, but as the blood returned to my brain, I realized that larger issues involved. We srcambled to find a doctor's number, got a prescription that cost $100 (didn't have a medical plan back then, and she didn't want to put it on her parents plan) and thank God, nothing developed.
But even after all that, she picked at how it wasn't as good as I could have done, or that didn't make her feel special enough. Years later.
My reaction to this was two fold. Inside, I felt like shit, like I was an inadequate husband. Outside, I got angry and yelled about how she was a spoiled brat who expected too much of everyone, including herself, and that if she was just more realistic, she would be happier. Of course, this didn't help the situation any, and can be chalked up to another thing on my list of things I did wrong.
I tried to make things special, I swear I tried, but eventually, it became a resentful, despairing kind of try. Which of course she picked up on and added to the failure of any of my attempts.
So Happy Fucking Birthday Wilma. I hope you're happier on your own.
posted by deadwriter at 9:04 a.m.
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