Honestly, Sandie

Alex and I got home on Friday from our glorious, 24½-years-late honeymoon.

Come November, we’ll have been married for twenty-five years, and I can honestly say I had the most glorious time. Every day felt magical. We did all the things. Tried all the food. Went on adventures. Wandered around. Saw things that took my breath away. It was everything I wanted it to be.

And somehow, one of the things I can’t stop thinking about happened in a little sushi restaurant.

The entire back half of the restaurant was taken over by what had to be thirty members of one family celebrating a birthday.

There were signs before the singing began that something was coming. There was literally a Happy Birthday banner hanging up. People were wearing party hats. Everyone seemed so damn happy.

I couldn’t even tell you who they were celebrating because everyone looked like they were celebrating.

Then the cake came out.

Candles were lit.

And they started singing.

It was Happy Birthday.

Except it wasn’t.

Not the version I knew.

This wasn’t the obligatory twenty seconds of Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, followed by someone blowing out candles while everyone waits for cake.

This thing KEPT GOING.

I don’t know if it was three minutes or five minutes or if I’ve exaggerated the whole thing in my head because I loved it so much.

But people were standing.

They were dancing.

They were clapping.

They were smiling.

It was loud and joyful and completely uninhibited.

And something shifted in me.

Music does that to me.

I love music. I love singing. I love dancing. I love celebrating people. It’s probably why I name almost everything I write after a song. Music has this strange ability to sneak into places words can’t quite reach.

So naturally, I came home determined to find this song.

I’ve Googled.

I’ve listened.

I’ve searched every combination of words I can think of.

Nothing.

I cannot find the damn song.

And maybe I’m not supposed to.

My family already has our own weird little Happy Birthday tradition. We ask the birthday person how they want us to sing it.

Opera?

Country?

Elvis?

Like we’re five?

Whatever they choose, that’s what they’re getting.

I grew up with a mom who waited tables, so restaurant birthday songs were practically part of my childhood soundtrack. Every restaurant had its own version.

There was one where the servers would come around the corner clapping their hands and singing.

It scared the absolute shit out of my little sister.

She couldn’t have been more than five, and she thought they were all coming to spank her.

Which is funny now.

And also probably says a whole lot more about our childhood than it does about the restaurant.

We were afraid of being spanked.

Maybe that’s part of why I didn’t spank my kids.

I don’t think you should parent out of fear.

Actually, I don’t think you should do much of anything out of fear.

Don’t parent out of fear.

Don’t lead out of fear.

Don’t love out of fear.

Don’t make your decisions out of fear.

Fear is a bitch.

I don’t want her running my life.

And maybe that’s why this stupid birthday song in a sushi restaurant has stayed with me.

There wasn’t an ounce of obligation in that room.

Nobody seemed worried about looking stupid.

Nobody was waiting for it to be over.

They were just celebrating the absolute shit out of somebody they loved.

There was joy in it.

And I think maybe there’s joy in Happy Birthday if you sing it right.

Not because the notes are different.

Because the people are.

I’ve spent days trying to find their version because I thought if I could just find the song, I could bring that moment home with me.

But maybe I don’t need their version.

Maybe I just needed to hear it once to realize there could be another one.

Because isn’t that how so much of life works?

You can know something your entire life.

Sing it the same way.

Say the same words.

Follow the same rhythm.

Never even question why you’re doing it that way.

Until one day you’re 44 years old, sitting in a random sushi restaurant on Kauai on your 24½-years-postponed honeymoon, and thirty strangers start doing it completely differently.

They’re dancing.

They’re laughing.

They’re full of joy.

And suddenly you think…

Oh.

We could have been doing this differently the whole damn time.

Maybe that’s why I notice things like this.

I’m always observing people.

I’m always writing things down.

I’m always wondering how everybody else lives.

Doesn’t everybody want to peek into somebody else’s windows?

I want to see everybody’s house.

Where do you put your couch?

Where do you hang your keys?

Do you have a closet full of coats or a closet full of shit you didn’t know where else to put?

Does your dog sleep in a crate or right in the middle of your bed?

Do you care if your kids’ rooms are messy, or have you decided there are more important things?

What’s in your fridge?

Do you grocery shop once a week or stop at the store every day?

I have so many questions.

Because ordinary people fascinate me.

The tiny things fascinate me.

The ways we do things without ever really thinking about why we do them fascinate me.

And I love that I’m still changing.

Still noticing.

Still discovering that things I thought I knew might have another version.

That at 44 years old, I can travel thousands of miles from home, walk into a sushi restaurant, hear a song I’ve known literally my entire life and somehow hear it for the first time.

I still can’t find their song.

So perhaps I’ll just have to make up my own.

Honestly, that feels pretty appropriate.

Because the next birthday in this house is getting a brand-new song.

And I have a feeling it’s going to be glorious.

Happy birthday to you.