Birthday

7/5/07
I am 47 today. I don't mind a bit. Going to France gave me time to think about what I really want in life, and turning 47 just makes me determined to try. Life is indeed short, and I am now old and wise enough to do what I want. When I was younger it was all a waiting game, a hoping-for-a-break inhale, a constant evolving dream of where I wanted to be in life. Now I’m “there,” and it’s more about what might make me happy, and how I can use my talents to contribute to the people I meet. The blessing of getting older is that (hopefully, if you grow a bit) you never want to go back, although if Merlin arrived and offered me my 30-year-old body, I’d go for it short of selling my soul.

My eldest niecelet is going to college next fall, and I am so excited for her, and yet, and yet…. I work on a college campus and I know what’s in store for her. I know what I went through, and the world is much less polite and respectful now than when I went to school. I think of the drinking, drugs, sexual experimentation; the shock that other people don’t live or think like you do, the o-my-god moments in a good classroom where the professor blows your mind and turns around your world. I’m a-shiver with worry and anticipation for her, and I would never never never want to go back to the door she is walking through. It’s just all too painful, and you have to be young and believe you have a lifetime ahead of you to endure it.


Yesterday D and I went to the Chicago Botanical Garden. It was crowded with people out for a 4th of July encounter with Nature. We tend to eschew the strollers and dreamy walkers and head for paths that others don’t take. We began with the English gardens and continued through the Japanese garden and the Waterfall garden. At last we found the Prairie landscape, and were happily alone with the tall grasses and the red-winged-blackbirds. We kept trying to follow the course on the Garden map, and the paths kept back-switching and bringing us back where we started, so we were out in the sun and the humidity far longer than we had planned. We finally arrived at the visitor’s center restaurant, panting and a little sun-stroked. We made a quick stop at Trader Joe’s for crackers, cheese, and fruit for our dinner picnic, and high-tailed it back to his place to recover.

Of course, fireworks are mandatory as part of my birthday week, so we packed our picnic and headed to nearby Evanston, reported to be the best fireworks in Chicago. We took the El (surprisingly not crowded) and stepped off the platform in toney Evanston, to stroll east to the lake. The streets were blocked off, but for some reason everyone was walking on the sidewalks. I pulled D into the street saying, “how often can you be brash and walk in the middle of the road?”

We got to the designated lakefront park, and found a nice little spot under a clearing in the trees. We opened up the thermos and poured out some Italian Prosecco and dined on English cheddar and French Comte. The air was cooling and the atmosphere around us was expectant, friendly, and festive. The entire scene was a feast for the senses. Hispanic Chicagoans were grilling meat, African-American Chicagoans were barbecuing, our Caucasian neighbors were sucking on cigars, citronella candles were blazing, and everyone, everyone, was stepping up to the Party.

Night fell and the kids got out the sparklers. I remember this moment from being three and going to fireworks in Austin, Texas. It’s still magical for me—the anticipation as the flame hits the sparkler. The wait—will it ever light? The burst of fire, and the chrysanthemum of sparks. The arcs and jumps of light as you wave your arms. Oh, what a joy, what a hallmark of summer. The colors danced as the twenty-something lads sold glowsticks and glow necklaces to the crowd. Radios blared—soul music, Spanish music, and somewhere, the echo of Steeley Dan.

The fireworks were supposed to start at 9:15. 9:30 arrived and the crowd started clapping, cheering, and whistling for the Party to commence. My bladder was about to burst, so I took that moment to find the Port-O-Potty.

A digression. I HATE these things. They smell, the floor is usually covered in urine, and I have successfully avoided them for about twenty years. But when you have to go, you have to go, and I didn’t want to miss the Party. I waited in line and advised a small child not to go in barefoot. I entered the cubicle and inspected the surroundings. Just as I had remembered, except that the toilet paper hadn’t run out yet. I unbuttoned and prepared to hover over the toilet seat.

Another digression. The bane of my existence is that I am short and the world is built by men who don’t imagine anyone is less than 5’6. I am relegated to small cars so I can see over the dashboards. Couches low to the ground so my feet can touch the floor. Circulation getting cut off in airline seats and most chairs, because I cannot sit back with my feet on the floor. Seatbelts that won’t retract because I have to pull them all the way out to reach me on my seat pulled up to the dashboard. You get the picture, if you don’t know what I’m talking about already.

The Port-O-Potty throne was too high off the ground for me to hover. There was no way in hell I was going to sit on the seat. As Tyra advised on her show, I was trying my best to pull my clothing away from the seat. I had to go. You can imagine the rest. I exited a mess and was grateful that it was dark outside.




But the heart-shaking booms of the fireworks had begun and I hurried back to D and lay on the grass with my eyes to the sky. Nothing was going to ruin my Party. The fireworks were indeed impressive, and D and I drank in the colors, the smoke, and the bone-vibrating blasts. After the finale, I wrapped the picnic blanket around my waist and we took the El home. Into the shower for me, while D baked my Lemon Chiffon birthday cake with coconut seven-minute icing. I threw everything I was wearing into the washer as more wine was poured. The party continued until 2AM, while D waited for the cake to cool. My birthday had commenced.