Birthday Blunder?

What happened last night wasn't disturbing in any way. At least, I don't think it was.

Was it?

You decide.

It was my birthday. My 42nd birthday, to be exact, which when I was a kid seemed frighteningly old. Hideously old. Incomprehensibly old.

Fortunately, now 42 years seems like...

Ah...who am I kidding? It still seems frighteningly old, especially when I happen to glance into a mirror as I walk by. You know that person at the pool? The one who's wearing a too-small Speedo even though he's got a body that shouldn't be seen out in public and certainly by no one other than his immediate family? That's me. Except for the Speedo.

Too much hair in all the wrong places. Not enough hair in all the right places. Flab poking out in funny spots. Wrinkles around my eyes that look like a subway map of Manhattan.

I live in fear of taking off my shirt while mowing the lawn, so I spend summers cultivating a vicious farmer's tan that can scare small children at 30 yards.

I kind of look like you took some pasty white dough, squeezed it two or three times in any old random way, then swept some cat hair from the sofa and stuck it on, emphasizing the back.

Delightful.

So perhaps it was just an acceptance of my new body image that made me do what I did last night.

Let me explain.

It was about 10 p.m. My kids were tucked away in their beds, fast asleep. My wife was coming back from a women's club meeting. I was lying in bed watching the World Series of Poker on ESPN.

So my wife walked in, dressed to the nines. (Why do women dress up like that when they get together? It makes no sense. When I get together with the guys, I'm lucky if I brushed my teeth and found matching socks to wear.)

She walked over to the bed and sat on the edge. She looked at me, a mischievous gleam in her eye and a hint of a smile playing across her lips.

"It's still your birthday," she said seductively. "What can I do for you?"

There it was. The Invitation. Invitation with a capital I.

The Invitation, especially the Birthday Invitation, meant that anything and everything was on the table. I had permission to order anything I wanted off the spousal menu.

So I thought for a minute. Then I made my selection.

"Well, I'm kind of hungry," I said. "Could you go get me a bowl of granola?"

She looked at me blankly for a moment, wondering if I'd lost my mind. Which, perhaps, I had.

Then she dutifully left the room, returning a few minutes later with my granola.

I thanked her and began eating. My attention went back to the World Series of Poker. She soon went away to do something else.

And you know what? I didn't regret it in the least. I was perfectly content. I was full, I was comfortable, I was happy.

There's always next year.