My husband gave me a serger sewing machine for my thirty-first birthday. It was a spectacular thing, because I didn’t remotely suspect that he’d give me something so big, or even sewing related.
My only fleeting guess at what my gift might be: a Garmin sport watch. He got a Garmin to use for his cyling, to keep track of his heart rate, power, speed, and distance stats. “I think you should have one, too. For your hiking.” He said that to me once in August, and that was about all I had to go on.
Not that I was thinking too hard about getting gifts.
Thirty-one was an exceptional birthday in all the simplest and best ways: the weather was stunning. My work day was brief and good. Patrick took the day off so he could spend it with me once I got home. We went on a seven-mile walk with our dog. We drove to the next town over to get excellent pizza (it was excellent, truly; go to Sticks and Stones). We ate pumpkin ginger cheesecake from the bakery I work for. This was all I needed. I got to turn thirty-one with my wonderful husband and dog; I got to slip off the burdens of thirty; I was truly happy.
And then Patrick excitedly led me to my sewing office to open my present, which I’d almost forgotten about. … A big box! Tape-tearing. Package-ripping. Uncovering. A serger! For me!
He was so excited. I was so excited. Maybe I wanted to throw up a little. “I need to get better at sewing! I hope I live up to this gift! I need to figure out what I can do with this!”
“Did I get you the right gift?”
Of course he did, poor man. But I was caught in a loop of what ifs and oh mys. “Can I? Will I? I hope I do!”
Truly, I have so much to learn about sewing. I feel almost guilty for having all these things to learn and yet being bestowed such a show of faith.
But that is precisely why he’s my husband. “Of course you can. And you’ll be great. Just go for it. Try. You’ll do wonderful things.”
Happy birthday to me.