“‘St. Elmo’s Fire’? What is wrong with you?” Tilda Tia asked. “By the way, Kitty and I are wondering what you’re going to do for your birthday.”
My birthday. I groaned.
“It’s a big one, isn’t it?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Are you going to tell people your age? Because I wouldn’t if I were you. You could just keep saying you’re fifty-nine. I know four women who did that through their late sixties. And who cares? After a certain age, no one pays that much attention.”
This, I had to agree, was true.
One of the things about fiftysomething birthdays is that people tend to forget them. Once you pass the big five-oh, they’re not that significant. Partly because at a certain point, you realize there’s not that much of a difference between fifty-eight and fifty-two. And partly because after fifty, it’s easy to somehow lose track of your age and not remember whether you are fifty-two, fifty-five, or fifty-eight, as happened to Kitty a couple of months ago. It turned out she was fifty-five, which to Kitty was such a “nothing” number that she actually forgot it was even her birthday. I could also recall a couple of birthdays in the last decade where I’d been content to just raise a glass of champers to myself and call it a day.
But then I’d met MNB. MNB was a lot of things, but mostly he was an organizer guy. And so, three months before the big six-oh, MNB began asking questions. What did I want to do to celebrate? Did I want to fly to London and have dinner at a nightclub? Or maybe go someplace warm for the weekend? All of which sounded wonderful, but would also require extra helpings of effort. There would be packing and then getting to the airport and waiting in line at security and then possibly at customs and I realized that while I was often willing to do these things for others, the one person I wasn’t willing to do it for was myself. And especially not for my birthday.
Plus, I hate “decade” birthdays the way I hate New Year’s Eve. Somehow, they’re supposed to be more fun than any other party, when in reality the best times are always the parties that aren’t planned, when things just happen.
And sure enough, when I think back on decade birthdays, with the exception of thirty, both forty and fifty were a bit of a bummer. I’d been dumped a week before my fortieth by a guy I’d dated for six months. He said, “I’m breaking up with you because you’re turning forty and you’re totally neurotic about it and I can’t deal.” Even though I thought I was handling it really well. Still, on the morning of my birthday when my mother called, I started crying. “I’m forty. And I’m not married and I never will be.”
“Please don’t make a big deal out of it,” my mother said. “Age is not that important.”
And she was right, because lots of great things happened in my forties. I did get married. I worked a lot. I made a home. And for some reason, I thought it would go on forever.
What it did was grind on, because by the time fifty came along, all I remember was that I was tired. So very, very tired. I had a recurring dream that I was in an office building on my way to a meeting and I collapsed in front of the elevators and I just lay there and could not get up.
And now another decade has passed. And, as it has been for so many others, it was a decade of change. Of moving, sectionorce, and death. Of rediscovering old friendships and finding new ways to have relationships. People in their fifties have to be like little engines that could, restarting themselves again and again until something kicks in, turns over, and there you are on the track once more.
And it’s okay. Because who would have thought that turning sixty feels a bit like waking up from a bad dream?
Maybe it was time to have a party after all. Even just a small one. And no, I wasn’t going to lie about my age. Fifty-nine forever?
I don’t think so.
And so as Kitty, Queenie, Sassy, Tilda Tia, my MNB, and I gathered at Omar’s, we raised a glass to all that had passed and all we hoped was to come. And looking around I knew one thing. Sixty had arrived and it was going to be fabulous.