We celebrated two birthdays this weekend. R and S’s (who’s bday was technically last week, but who’s counting.) S & L are our K-State friends, if we had met them while at K-State. We met them 3 years after graduating, but it feels like we met while in college. Maybe it’s because L wore KSU clothes all weekend. They’re also our golfing friends. S brought me clubs that her mother was exchanging out for some newer ones. I was absolutely thrilled and (am) so grateful. They’re a huge step up from the $3 set I got at a garage sale with my parents. Now I can’t blame my bad game on the clubs. Damn.
I packed up a picnic and took them for (what turned out not to be) “just a ten minute jaunt up the hill” as I had originally marketed the lunch to them. After rolling my eyes through a 30 minute detour because the two guys were jabbering like two women in a sewing circle (when R has someone in his midst to talk sports, he doesn’t let the opportunity pass) and missing our turn, I became even more determined to get to our end destination. It would have been a 45 minute detour if the two youngests (of a family) convinced the two oldests to just cut across the highway. R and S about had a heart-attack as we drove slowly past the “do not turn around in median” sign. We also noticed storm clouds following us like we were Schleprock on the Flinstones. All the more reason why it had to be a ten minute jaunt.
We braved the weather and went up. And up. And up. I kept yelling that it was only “40 more seconds” and L would mutter “40 more seconds until we start the 40 minute leg.” He says he would’ve, but I don’t think he would have made it if we went any further. Look at his footwear. Oh, no big deal. We’re just going to climb up to an overlook bluff, I’ll just throw on some sandals.
Luckily, we remained dry and popped into a cave for a photo-op.
Later that night, we headed down to Fayetteville for some birthday drinks. The majority of our conversation revolved around, what else?, ourselves. R and S both married the youngest of a family, with them both being the oldest. They have birthdays within a week of each other and cannot break a rule. It was interesting to disect both our relationships and compare similarities. However, I soon realized that the oldests had the most to say and so changed the conversation before S & R really ganged up on us. It was all in good fun though.
S survived the dinner even though we were certain the waitress had put some sort of toxin into her margarita. I compared it to aspartame so I could segway into my “i’m never going to drink diet anything again” vendetta. Okay, not you Diet Mt. Dew. Okay, not you Diet Dr. Pepper either. Alright alright, I just like talking loudly about things. Following through is an oldest’s job.
We got home and sang happy birthday to the kids. 28 years! Yowza.