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My wife's birthdays depress me.
(whoa, ShankRabbit, you're such a dick)

Ok... hold on... let me explain, because it really isn't totally about birthdays as it is more about large holidays in which my wife should be the center of attention. 

First, you have to understand that my wife is amazing. I know that lots of men say that about their wives, but here me out - my wife is one of those wives that lots of men wish they had. "Well, not everyone has it as good as you...", I have heard many times before. 

Even her flaws, which like every human she has, just seem to fit well with my flaws. If I may quote some lyrics of a song I enjoy, "what's wrong with you is good with what's wrong with me"

And that is precisely why it's depressing. 

Whether self-inflicted or a pattern of middle class life, I feel stretched way too thin. There's always so much going on, so much poop to clean up, so many spills on the floor, so much work to do, so many last minute timelines, so many boxes to unpack (still... ugh). With everything that goes on, sadly, me pampering and giving the attention and love that my wife deserves many times comes second place. Crying kid vs. pampering wife? Yeah, probably the crying kid. Deployment for big job vs. nightly cuddles and tv? Yeah... probably the deployment. 

Sad, right? 

The fact of the matter is:

She deserves better than me. 

"Blah blah blah - you're such an attention seeking whore, Shank"... well yes... yes I am. But this is something I've always truly felt. Perhaps it's because I'm a terrible perfectionist. "Terrible" because mentally I demand perfection, but in execution I'm bumbling around in completion and actions. Most of the time I get away with it because I've become a master of shortcuts and smoke-and-mirrors. 

(Those of you closest to me are probably nodding your heads... "yeah... "... [senior art show cough cough])

But I can't fool my wife again and again - she's caught on. She knows. 

This especially smacks me in my face on big special days (full circle here). I have grand aspirations of fanfare, parties, long walks on the beach, far off vacations all to celebrate these moments in her life. But what it came down to was a weekend full of unpacking and putting together Ikea furniture, me working more than I should have, and a slaughtered, terrible breakfast. 

Happy. Freaking. Birthday. Enjoy your bland sausage.

I'm an overly lucky guy.

She's with me. She stays with me. She puts up with the most ridiculous jokes and lame actions ever conceived, handles me not always being perfect, supports me when I'm needy, and STILL loves me more than I could ever imagine. And for some, unknown, reason... she doesn't want to leave me!

The stars somehow aligned in some way where this is reality and I'm the lucky recipient of something I shouldn't have been given.

So I say this to you, Isabella:

When the world is on its last breath and in an instant more will grow dark, the gods or God or flying spaghetti monster will look down at a universe that lived its course and agree with one another that the love born from your heart and given freely to your friends, your children, and especially to me, was a love that was matched by no other. And they will learn from your soul and model their next universe with that love as a template of perfection.

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Happy Birthday, my angel.