Twenty-Seven and Learning to Suit My Foot

I was born on this date 27 years ago. Last night, I complained to David, “I’m getting older.” He said, “No, you’re getting presents.” He’s a good husband.* I know 27 isn’t anywhere near old, but I’ve been a little under the weather lately, which always makes me feel like I’m falling apart.

I read on eeksy peeksy that Emily Dickinson died on this date in 1886, 90 years before I was born. I didn’t know that before today. I discovered this poem by her while in high school. For some reason, I always think of it when I hear her name, and it seems a fitting poem to remember on a birthday.

IS bliss, then, such abyss
I must not put my foot amiss
For fear I spoil my shoe?

I ’d rather suit my foot
Than save my boot,
For yet to buy another pair
Is possible
At any fair.

But bliss is sold just once;
The patent lost
None buy it any more.

I told a co-worker that I got a new voice for my birthday—the voice of Lauren Bacall. That’s my blissful way of spinning a sore, hoarse throat. Of course, if I were really following my bliss, I wouldn’t be seeing any co-workers today. But shhh. Don’t tell anyone.

*David is also very generous and good at finding the perfect presents. I hope to post pictures as soon as I can of the antique 1870s bird book illustrations he presented to me this morning—my first bit of bliss for the day.