So as many of you know, I absolutely hate my birthday—I don’t need to be reminded that I’m more than halfway to Betty White’s age, thanks! In addition, I already know that if I’m absolutely lucky and manage to survive all sorts of disease and misfortune, the best I can hope for is another 170 years or so before the odometer runs out and I drop dead, which isn’t nearly enough time to get everything I need done.

Of course, when I was younger, I was like most kids and enjoyed my fair share of birthday parties. The one that jumps out at me—literally—was the surprise party my parents threw for me when I was 13.

I truly had no idea it was coming, and was completely oblivious that Friday night my father and grandfather took me out shopping for a weight-lifting bench. I should’ve known something was up—it was the only time ever that the two of them had taken me to a store that didn’t sell building supplies or hardware. They were both straight arrows, and both were acting pretty goofy; at one point, they grabbed a football and were throwing it around the store, which in retrospect, I realize was to stall. At the time, it was just fun.

Anyway, when we got home, I noticed our dog Smokey was in his crate in the dining room, which was odd, but before I could think about it too much, my parents told me to take the carton with my new weight bench into the basement. I went down the short but dark stairs—the switch was at the bottom—and flipped on the lights and stepped into the room.

I should mention at this point, like many kids, I always had a slight fear of going into the dark basement.

As the lights came on, there was an eruption of what *probably* was celebratory screams. I’ll remember to my dying day—which I thought had come at that moment—one of my friends at the time leapt off the couch and directly at me. Of course, I recognized him immediately, but the incongruity of him suddenly appearing out of the dark of what I thought was an empty basement and then hurtling like a banshee through the air at me was a bit … well, SURPRISING! I literally fell over backward in shock.

Apparently, my “loving” mother had told them that she was going for “heart attack.” Mission accomplished! If that happened to me today, I’d drop dead of a coronary.

But lucky for you all, I haven’t. Yet.

My other particularly memorable birthday was 19 years ago, when I turned … uh, well the number isn’t important. Suffice to say it was more than 13. This time, I was the one planning the surprise.

This was back in the day when my wife Sue and I were still dating. It was 1993, and after two-and-a-half years of exclusivity, we both knew we were the “one” for each other. We’d had open discussions about getting married, and knowing that some day we’d get engaged, my wife made me promise two things: 1.) That I don’t tell anyone first and it be a surprise for her and everyone (because my sister’s husband had told us all before proposing to my sister, which sort of took some of the fun out of finding out), and 2.) That I not ask her father’s permission first because she was not “some piece of property, like a cow, to be bartered for.” (I should’ve *known* right at that point, right?)

So in January of 1993, while my then-girlfriend Sue and I were driving around, I came up with a plan. “You know what I want for my birthday this year?” I said at some point after having conveniently steered the discussion in that direction. “Rather than any gifts, I just want you to take me out for a nice dinner somewhere.” She agreed, and the pieces started falling in place.

Right after Valentine’s Day, I went and bought the ring (they’re cheaper then, by the way), and spent the next three months checking on it every day, like some sort of Señor Wiences routine. (“You still in box? Sí. S’all right? S’right.”) As my birthday got closer, I finalized the details for my special dinner—we were going to The Rusty Scupper by the water in New Haven on Sunday afternoon. As pure luck would have it, since it was my birthday, my grandparents decided to invite all my family and Sue’s family to their apartment for later that night to celebrate me getting older; they had no idea that they had played right into my hands.

Cut to me, twiddling my fingers á la Mr. Burns: “Exxxcellent.”

I also helped sell the surprise. A few days before the question was to be popped, I was talking on the phone with Sue, and mentioned how someone I knew had gotten engaged. I said I was jealous and wished that I had saved up enough money to get a ring, and that she shouldn’t worry, I’m sure it would happen some time “closer to the end of the year.” She said that was okay …

Hook successfully baited!

The big day finally comes. It’s a bright, sunny and warm afternoon, which I realize suddenly presents me with a problem: If it’s too warm to wear a jacket, where am I going to hide the ring box? If I put it in my pocket, someone might accidentally notice the big square lump and inadvertently ruin the surprise.

I think for a few seconds about how to conceal it, and come up with a plan: If police could conceal guns in ankle holsters, then why can’t I hide an engagement ring in my sock?

I tuck the ring into my left sock just below my calf, and to make sure that it doesn’t fall or move around, I use masking tape to hold it in place. My loose-fitting Dockers provide enough space to hide any bulges. It’s perfect!

So I go to Sue’s house to pick her up, and not surprisingly, no one notices that I’m sweating more than normal or the unusual bulge in my pants leg. (Hmm … that doesn’t sound right, does it?) As we’re going to the restaurant, I suggest we stop along the way at Savin Rock in West Haven since it’s a gorgeous weather—we often go for walks down there and watch the old guys play bocce. She agrees, so I drive there.

We stroll along the boardwalk for a while (as I surreptitiously check my sock every 30 seconds) and I finally spot a vacant bench near the point by Savin Rock. We sit down, and I start saying nice things to her—this being back before we were married, it didn’t raise as much as suspicion as it would now. If I was this complimentary to her now, she’d instantly be on her iPhone with the insurance company asking out how much she’d be cashing in for as she’d figure I was dying.

Eventually, I get around to how I want to spend the rest of my life with her. “I know we’ve talked about it a bunch of times,” I say, feeling my pulse beginning to rise, “but if I were to ask you to marry me, you’d say ‘Yes,’ right?”

“Of course,” she says. I can see she has absolutely no idea what’s about to happen.

“Hmmm … good,” I say, nodding my head and reaching down to hike up my pants leg. “So if I were to reach into my sock … like THIS”—I tear the tape off of my leg—”and pull out a ring … like THIS”—I produce the box and snap it open—”… you’d still say ‘Yes,” right?!!!”

“OH MY GOD!”

She is stunned and fumbling for me to put the ring on her. We kiss.

“So that’s means ‘Yes,’ right?” I ask.

“Of course!”

And then she takes me out and for my birthday dinner. You know, because I’m a genius like that.

Happy birthday to me!