27
I had a nice “work birthday” today. Lunch out at my favorite French place. (Although, let’s face it, “lunch out” is celebration enough.) Gifts. Cards. That sort of thing.
I used to love birthdays. I’d spend days shopping and cooking and cleaning. My house would be filled to the brim with appetizers that I’d make. Mom would bake for days and drop off platters of goodness. And I always bought blow-up boats and filled them with ice to chill all the booze I had to offer.
My apartments and balconies were always crammed full of friends. My birthdays were AWESOME.
I got to thinking of the final party I threw in Pittsburgh. It was the day he told me the second baby was coming. That this was it. That this had to be our goodbye.
And it was weird today hearing the same news. Not delivered the same way and not the same situation. But, still. That moment of life as one knows it screeching to a halt, ending whatever possibilities were keeping said person hopeful in the interim.
I guess I will always be 27 and sitting on my front steps, holding on to him for hours because I knew I’d never see him again after that last touch ended. My friends hiding in the bushes trying not to be seen, while marveling that they’d never seen me like that. Smitten. Peaceful. Vulnerable.
My friends were there when he left. And I will always remember that.
Things at least happened on my birthdays. Anything is better than one miserable year fading into the next with no interruption whatsoever. I loved it all. Even the heartache. And that year brought plenty more.
But I remember everything about being 27. I won’t remember a damn thing about 39. That’s because nothing happened.
This year, I need to rekindle my hobby of shit-stirring. I’m a bit rusty, but I think I can do it. Now where did I pack my spoon …