It’s my birthday, and we’re on the road, as usual. This time it’s an okay low-budget hotel in Anchorage. Our plan for a nice dinner was dashed due to the limited nearby options.

(At the diner with the best potential: “What’s best here?” “Well, we serve breakfast all day.” I can take a hint.)

After “breakfast,” I’m about to watch a film in bed, laptop on my lap. Bob says he’ll watch it with me, move over.

“Get on the other side,” I suggest lazily.

“No, move over,” he insists.

So I do. And under the covers, I feel something soft and loose. Something that doesn’t belong in a freshly pulled-back hotel bed.

Squeamish, I leap out of the bed, disgusted. “Ew, they didn’t change the linens! Someone’s left clothes in the bed! I have to call…”

I reach for the phone and Bob bursts out laughing.

“Look again,” he says. “It’s your birthday present!”

Yes, a dress. Beautiful. Funny. And so much more fun than tearing open wrapping paper.