At Thanksgiving, my grandson tried to blow out a row of candles tucked into mini pumpkins as part of the holiday table décor. At three years old, candles mean birthdays, fun, and CAKE. This week, I turned 63 years old—lots of candles.
I am ambivalent about my birthday, experiencing all-too-common December birthday dilemmas like “This is your birthday and Christmas gift” or sharing my day with an office Christmas party or neighbor’s open house. However, I love celebrating everyone else’s birthday—especially when a good cake is involved. Who am I to pass up a mound of buttercream frosting?
Beyond the calories, I counsel myself that the sugar in the cake is inflammatory, which will cause my arthritic feet to ache daily, reminding me of the miles I have put on my feet—from showing houses to hiking switchbacks in New Zealand, Spain, and Pine Mountain. My feet remind me of my age more than the candles on a cake.
I am thankful Gen Xers have made Hokas athletic shoes cool. At the grocery store, my shoes spring me through the dairy section, where I search for organic, non-fat, hormone-free, fragrance-free, and tasteless yogurt. Next, I scan the granola bags for the fewest foreign ingredients. Why does buying quality food prove so problematic?
Why? Why? Why? So many questions nag at me. Why not eat the cake? Bake the cake.
It’s your birthday week. Chocolate. Check.BUUUUUTTTER. Check. Sprinkles. Check.
This time of year, baking is on the to-do list. Over the years, I have learned the lesson of putting all the ingredients together before starting the recipe. Since I have baked more bread this year than cakes and pies, I prudently checked the freshness of my baking soda to prevent heartache from the cookies not having the texture and depth or my cake being flat.
I toss a smidge of baking soda and add two teaspoons of vinegar, watching for bubbles. No bubbles. It’s time to replace it. Expired. Now, that is an interesting word. Expired. It feels not quite dead but just about. It is invalid. It, whatever, IT maybe, stopped being used. Perhaps it’s a brutal word for retired.
Expired. I usually only think of the word when I clean out the unused coupons from my wallet. They are past the use-by date unless the manager approves it. So, another layer to the word expired. Are they indeed expired? Or just a point of negotiation?
Marketing wizards study and exploit basic human instincts and develop deadlines to ensure activity. Consumers consume for fear of waste and missing out on savings, and they pull out their wallets for fear that their clothing, food, trips, and perceived savings will go away. The ultimate excuse: It’s about to expire. Therefore, we must eat, buy one, get one, lock in on our interest rate, or take the trip.
And I am no different. One of the best things about a December birthday is that it is the end of the calendar year. And who am I to let points expire unused? With Hokas on and a passport packed, I will use those points before they expire. And eat lots of cake.
One thing that never EXPIRES: enthusiasm—zest for living a big, juicy life.
