My Favorite Birthday Present EVER!
by Bev Hilton
Last year, a week or two before the occasion, my husband, Rick, asked me what I'd like for my birthday. Prior to his asking, I didn't have an answer. But one-half of a nano-second after he asked, the answer sprang from my lips. "I want to be invisible for three days." Here's how that came about.
"I'm pooped. I need a break. A retreat. Yeah, I'd sure love to go on a retreat. But to go on a retreat you have to plan and pack and drive, and that's more work than I'm willing to do at this moment. A retreat at home – that would work! Play in the sewing room, get some things done that I haven't had time to do. But to do that, I'd have to be invisible." Hence, "I want to be invisible for three days." It came out so fast, I still have no idea where it was lurking.
So last year for my birthday, from Friday through Sunday, everybody in the house played along. I cloaked and de-cloaked from time to time. Rick would ask if he could kiss his invisible wife. My father-in-law would ask, "Is Bev here? Can I see her?" And if I answered, he'd proceed with whatever he wanted to say. The only ones that didn't play along were the cats. They want to get fed when they want to get fed, and they don't want to hear about invisibility. And even invisible, they're good sniffers.
I played in the sewing room in my nightgown ‘till noon, got projects finished that had been stalled for weeks. We ordered in dinner so I didn't need to cook, I did no dishes or laundry or housecleaning, I stayed out of the office. I just did what I felt like doing for three days, and it was delightful. Come Monday, I wanted to be invisible again, but that didn't work.
So for anyone who is feeling a bit overwhumped, anyone who needs a break but doesn't want to have to work too hard to get it, I heartily recommend invisibility for a couple of days. My birthday has rolled around again this year, and do I need to tell you what I've requested? Hmmm . . . but then, there's also Mother's Day . . . and . . . Christmas . . . and . . .