I hate buying birthday cards. I can never pick the right one.
I’ll spend so much time, wandering the aisle, trying to find one that looks just right.
That one looks perfect. Did I buy that one before though?
That one’s great, but why does it say something inside instead of just being blank so I can write what I want?
Writing the card is its own process. I’ll draft the words on my phone.
I have flashbacks when I write it. I’ll go really slow. I remember a montage of moments where I’ve messed cards up in the past. I’m pretty sure I got told off when I was little, for messing up the writing on an expensive card, and a parent had to rescue it.
I feel like I’m a single digit age again. I used to sign the cards for my brothers and I. Hold on. Careful. The amount of times I nearly sign our three names, even now.
The card is written. I let it stand. Let the ink dry. Not getting caught out with that smudgy mistake again.
It looks great. It’s done. Everything’s alright. Thank fuck.
I seal the envelope. The adhesive lingers on my tongue. The taste of stress, last minute fixes, and birthdays.
I hope they like it.