Birthday Party-o-rama!

Let it flood. January, I turned fifty, but I’ve been celebrating for six months. Why not? Fifty, after all, means that one, in all probability, has less life to live than life already lived. Last July when my family visited relatives in Seattle, our troop met up at a Mexican restaurant for dinner. "It has to be one of your birthdays," our waitress urged. I stepped up to the platter. I raised my chicken taco. “It’s my birthday,” I said. If there is Christmas in July, why shouldn’t my birthday middle into Julius Caesar’s month? My mother-in-law insisted it could not be my birthday. Maybe it could be her son’s or her granddaughter’s but not mine. True, their birthdays were closer, but no deal. In determined five year old fashion, I got my birthday-way. The waitress delivered a goblet of deep-fried ice cream smothered in hot fudge, and whipped cream. I devoured a spoonful, including the cherry, and sent my free sundae to make the rounds of the rest of the table. The staff and my family sang “Happy Birthday”. I not sure if my defeated mother-in-law joined in the singing, but she did acquiesce. Then, Amy Winehouse crooned over the noisy clatter of enchilada and chalupa-ensconced dishes and too-noisy patrons getting drunk on margaritas. My husband and I jumped up and danced to “Rehab” to the admiring smiles of the Chico Villa’s patrons. There would be three more celebrations.

My daughters made me a gourmet vegan dinner which included, among other culinary delights, glazed tempeh cutlets, fennel and hazel nut salad, and some sort of doubly fudgy cake, and on the real occasion, my husband took me to the best restaurant in town. The gala party would be a month afterward. I reasoned, from years of experience that nobody wants to celebrate right after Christmas and New Years. If I could squeeze in before St. Valentine’s Day, I could be guaranteed a good crowd. My first notion was to have a big bash, fifty people for my fiftieth. Then, I considered a smaller intimate group of ten. Perhaps, the attendees could bring some sage advice like they do for graduates on the threshold of adult life. For me, at this liminal moment, the advice might be how to engage thoughtfully with the rest of my life. But, no. Finally, I decided on a compromise: twenty-five guests at 7:35 PM, wearing red. Why 7:35? Fifty, unlike eighteen which is a time for breaking rules, is a time to make up one’s own rules. Why red? Because green is my favorite color, but they have a holiday for that in March. Having decided on the number of guests, I wrote the invitations, except for the last few. I thought someone besides me should be asking people to celebrate me. My husband was the logical candidate. However, he penned the wrong date on the invitations. He wrote February 7th instead of February 9th, probably due to the fact that my real birthday was January 7th. I had chosen February 9th because it was on a Saturday. Who could blame the poor guy for being mixed up? On the Thursday before my big celebration, the doorbell rang. I ended up having an impromptu pre-party to the post-party. There was beer and popcorn and presents, a nice preview to the pseudo-real thing. All in all, there were five parties to be had.

Some may think me self indulgent and excessive. Perhaps. Yet after fifty years celebrating the miracle of being alive for five days, out of three hundred and sixty-five, doesn’t seem like so very much. It was fun, reminded me of being eighteen, but not my eighteenth birthday party. My birthdays were forgettable or non-existent. Maybe, I'm making up for a lifetime of lost childhood birthdays. Bring on the pinata. The last party—the post, post-party. My elder daughter spent the night. She, my husband and I walked outside the door of our house and ceremoniously released the two week old, red and white helium balloons. We watched the small, merry crowd rise and break the taciturn, February morning with color. Now, I think I ready to let go of “fifty” and get on with the everyday celebration of life.