Last week, whenever my birthday plans came up, my husband alluded to us going somewhere where I would pick something out. He had already made at least two trips to said place, it having been closed the first time he stopped by. All I knew was that it was somewhere fairly far downtown and I needed to go later in the day because I was picking out something I couldn’t take with me to the art museum (which was my big birthday plan). And, I was told, I would really like it.
The day before my birthday found me elbow-deep in self-pity, lamenting the loss of real cheese from my life and generally feeling sorry for myself.
My husband announced I needed cheering up and needed to open a birthday gift early.
I refused and insisted I was fine.
The conversation turned to tomorrow’s birthday plans and I said I would, actually, like to know about this mysterious somewhere-to-pick-something-out part of the itinerary.
Could my husband give me a hint without giving it away? No.
Did I want him to just tell me what it was so I would have time to think about what I wanted to pick out at said place? Well, okay.
He fished around in the cabinet I had been expressly forbidden to look in, brought out a small red envelope, and handed it to me. I was a little surprised: gift cards aren’t usually my husband’s style.
Then I opened it.
“Oh, and there’s something else,” he said and handed me a slim book: The Murray’s Cheese Handbook: A Guide to More Than 300 of the World’s Best Cheeses.
“I knew this was something you’d really love and that you would never think of buying for yourself,” my husband said.
What can I say? Some women hope their husbands buy them flowers; some, jewelry. I don’t know how I got lucky enough to have a husband who knows to buy me cheese for my birthday.