The thing was, I didn’t know if I’d get over it. I told myself the usual platitude that I’m a grown up, and really, how many grown ups hunt for Easter eggs? By themselves? My lower lip quivered as I whined to myself, “I do! I hunt Easter eggs.” And the Easter Bunny didn’t show up. Actually, the Easter Bunny informed me the night before that he had forgotten it was Easter– how that’s possible when all of the stores are decked out in plastic grass and pastels, I’ll never know– and he followed it up with, “I’m such a bad husband!” Like that’s supposed to console me. Now there’s no Easter AND I have a bad husband.
On Easter morning I put out his card and Reese’s Reester Bunny that I remembered to purchase, and he groaned when he saw them. “I woke remembering that I didn’t get you any Cadbury mini-eggs. I’m such a bad husband.” I think we covered that base thoroughly now, thank you. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to pout; how was it that I had to console HIM, when I was the one deprived of my annual hunt? He apologized and asked if there was anything he could do to make up for this. Attempting to wrap my mind around the fact that in the scheme of wars, famine, and API scores, this was really No. Big. Deal. “No. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.” Then trying not to mope, but failing, I grabbed my walking poles and left for my four mile walk.
As I walked I tried to snap out of it by working out my aggression by thwacking my poles on the asphalt. Sure, I was disappointed; people do occasionally forget holidays. Who those people are, I don’t know, but I’ve heard of it happening. Apparently, my husband was now one those minions. Thwack! My annoyance escalated as people drove by craning their necks to ogle my poles. Obviously, one has to be a skier or blind to use them. Yesterday two different people informed me that there was not any snow on the ground. I had answered with my usual cheerfulness, but today… Oh today, they would feel the wrath of my poles. Thwack! A teenager walking to his car stared at my poles incredulously as he tried to equate them with the balmy sixty degree weather. Glaring at him from behind my sunglasses, I sent him a telepathic rebuttal: “If it’s so warm, then why are you wearing a ski cap?” Thwack! A mile later I walked by a man cheerfully hiding eggs in his front yard. There’s a hunt happening at his house. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
I knew I was being silly and petulant. I knew that it was just a bunch of eggs with candy inside– the very same candy that my parents sent me a bag of and that I could also buy for 75% off the following day, so it wasn’t like I was deprived. I knew that I am married to a man who can look at any menu and know exactly what I would order. Who leaves articles about Downton Abbey out for me to read. Who brings home chicken soup, Saltines, and 7-Up when I’m sick. Who makes me a special dinner every weekend. Who… you get the picture. I knew that a real grown-up would stop being a spoiled brat and just get over it.
I returned home, still disappointed, but less so. But, I really wasn’t looking forward to a day consoling the “man who forgot Easter.” I slunk into the house and put my poles away. “Did you put those poles away correctly?” he asked. Wondering why he cared about them, I opened the door to reveal upright poles and shut the door. Again, he questioned my pole-storage technique. Restraining from declaring that I know how to put my own poles away, I humored him and opened the door again. “See?” he pointed out, “Are the handles supposed to look like that?” I glanced the handles and on the shelf above them peeked a bright green plastic egg. My heart soared as I opened it greedily to reveal my Cadbury mini-eggs. I gave my beloved Easter Bunny a hug as I reverted to being a kid again to enjoy the thrill of the hunt.
Photos: en.wikifur.com and masterorganizing.net