If a month ago you had asked me how I thought my 40th birthday would go down, I might have said "surprise party" or "weekend in Vegas" or "dinner at a fancy restaurant with some of my closest friends". I would not have said "giving the eulogy at my grandmother's funeral". Now, if you're among the dozens of readers who follow my personal blog, you know that the death of my grandma has weighed heavily upon me. And if you are ever offered the chance to write and deliver a eulogy at the funeral of someone near and dear to you, I wholeheartedly encourage you to do it, for it's an incredibly comforting experience. Having said all that, having your 40th birthday on the day of your grandma's funeral contains multitudes of Awful. There's no sugar-coating it. It's every single mortality/aging/fear of death anxiety/issue wrapped up in one incredibly guilt-ridden package (because I'm telling you right now, no matter how hard you try, if you are unfortunate enough to experience having your 40th birthday on the day of a loved one's funeral, a little voice in your head will whisper "Dude. Grandma's funeral on your 40th? It SUCKS to be you", and then about 1 millisecond later that same voice will be saying "Pack your bags! You're going on a Guilt Trip, and you're gonna need something like that steamer trunk that Tom Hanks used in Joe Versus The Volcano.")
Following the actual service and reception, there was a wake of sorts at my grandma's house. As much as I wanted to, I was too numb to really drink; I sipped at a bottle of Bass and nodded and smiled at relatives and friends of relatives. People came up to me and thanked me and told me how lovely my words and thoughts were. Nod. Smile. Lucas and Zoe walked around looking cute. People came up to me and told me how cute they both looked. Nod. Smile. I wandered around trying to look like I was looking for someone. Finally the kids' appetites saved me; it was getting on 5:00, and since neither of them were interested in the roast beef wraps and macaroni salad left over from the reception, I grabbed Beth and said, "Let's go get some dinner somewhere."
Somewhere was downtown San Luis Obispo. We parked and walked for a bit. SLO is a college town; the CalPoly kids roamed around in their Mustangs hoodies and ironic beards. And I remembered something. Pizza. Specifically, Woodstock's Pizza. Woodstock's was THE pizza place at San Diego State; the pepperoni/green pepper/jalapeno combo was excellent as both a pre- and post-boozing supplement (there were usually leftover slices in my dormroom minifridge; chased with a V8, it was a pretty effective hangover remedy). I caught a whiff of that amazing peppery sauce and the decision was made. Full circle: while the actual details of my 20th birthday are foggy (for reasons more to do with malt/hops than years/mileage), I know that I ate Woodstock's Pizza that night.
The four of us downed a large pepperoni (whole wheat crust, of course), and then a small Cinnamon Pizza (think of a flat cinnamon roll; Zoe didn't eat her piece so much as lick off all of the frosting, which resulted in an notable increase in hopping up and down in her stroller while singing loudly and waving to everyone in sight). Following that, we walked around the downtown area, Lucas bombarding me with questions related to my age ("How many years is forty? Are you older than Batman?") We stopped and marveled at Bubble Gum Alley, which for those unfamiliar is an alleyway covered with several layers of used gum. It's both disgusting and beautiful, which I suppose qualifies it as Art. (
Here's a picture.) Lucas and Beth and I chewed up pieces of Trident and made our own contribution to the reef of calcifying gum, ever-expanding, like the Universe itself. Then we piled into the car and headed back to the collective mourning. We drove past darkening fields, and I smiled at the thought that such things as walls of chewed-up gum were still out there, waiting to be discovered.
