My fiftieth birthday came and went last week. It was a lovely week, finished off yesterday with Sunday dinner at my home with all the kids and grand kids. But the "birthweek" didn't start out so great. My friend, Dalene, has several really good "Bad Birthday" stories and I thought I might be able to contribute one of my own when four days before the big event I had surgery; three days before the big event two of my kids said, "Oh! It's your fiftieth? We didn't know. We should have done something special." Later another child mentioned, "I was going to do this really cool thing for your birthday, but then you saw it on Pinterest and life got super busy for me, so I'll do it when you turn sixty." None of my six siblings mentioned it, none of my close friends suggested doing anything special. For a brief moment on the night before my birthday I thought maybe someone was planning a surprise party because everyone was so quiet and nonchalant about it. But no. There were no secret plans being made.
Don't get me wrong, I am usually very happy to create festive and delightful celebrations for anyone and everyone, including myself. But I just didn't have it in me this year [see para 1 line 4]. Besides, the money for the 50th birthday trip to Paris is now in the hands of a skilled surgeon and the University of Utah Medical center. I will save other various and sundry details about the Dreadful Early Morning Fiftieth Birthday Hours for another day -- except for the part where helium balloons a friend had tied to my mailbox were drenched with rain, hanging down around the sidewalk and one of them would have been carried away in brown gutter water if not for the strength of that tiny saturated grosgrain ribbon securing it to its companions. Yes, I'll tell you that part. The rest will have to wait for an essay in Dalene's book, which I am certain she will write. Heaven knows she has enough material. She even has a working title: Eat the Damn Cake.
What I want to share today is a series of happy accidents that made the half-decade birthday quite wonderful. First, Carol (of the soggy balloons) called while I was shopping (my first time out since surgery) at TJ Maxx and asked if I had plans for lunch. No, of course not. It's only my 50th birthday. Why would anyone think of inviting me to lunch? She treated me to Spicy Thai, which was marvelous. Second, my energy medicine practitioner friend gave me an appointment on my very birthday for a rejuvenating, enlightening treatment session. Nothing like a good "clearing" as they say in the business. Third, Lauren asked me to stop by her house while I was out so she could give me a gift on my actual birthday. We ended up making a trip to the mall where my grand kids played at the indoor playground and we all ate See's chocolates. There were fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh other little surprises that made the day perfect. But the cherry on top of what one friend said should be an Epic Birthday came later.
Dalene took me to a salon for a pedicure on Friday. It was her gift to me and it was heavenly. We enjoyed all the usual stuff with the massage chairs and the making-feet-soft-and-pretty. (Including a paraffin wax foot bath. Oh, my! Why didn't someone tell me about this sooner?) When we first arrived at the salon, I had chosen a color for my nails that basically called to me. Seriously, as I perused the hundreds of colors on the wall, this one may have actually been singing my name.
When all the pampering was done and we were walking toward the door to leave, Dalene stopped and said, "Wait! You have to find out the name of the nail polish color. These O.P.I names are the BEST!" So we turned around. I went back and picked up the bottle, turned it upside down, pushed my glasses onto my forehead, squinted to focus my fifty-year-old eyes on the tiny print on the tiny white circular tag on the bottom of the bottle. "It's MY Year"
Thank you, Serendipity. Happy accident, indeed.
Don't get me wrong, I am usually very happy to create festive and delightful celebrations for anyone and everyone, including myself. But I just didn't have it in me this year [see para 1 line 4]. Besides, the money for the 50th birthday trip to Paris is now in the hands of a skilled surgeon and the University of Utah Medical center. I will save other various and sundry details about the Dreadful Early Morning Fiftieth Birthday Hours for another day -- except for the part where helium balloons a friend had tied to my mailbox were drenched with rain, hanging down around the sidewalk and one of them would have been carried away in brown gutter water if not for the strength of that tiny saturated grosgrain ribbon securing it to its companions. Yes, I'll tell you that part. The rest will have to wait for an essay in Dalene's book, which I am certain she will write. Heaven knows she has enough material. She even has a working title: Eat the Damn Cake.
What I want to share today is a series of happy accidents that made the half-decade birthday quite wonderful. First, Carol (of the soggy balloons) called while I was shopping (my first time out since surgery) at TJ Maxx and asked if I had plans for lunch. No, of course not. It's only my 50th birthday. Why would anyone think of inviting me to lunch? She treated me to Spicy Thai, which was marvelous. Second, my energy medicine practitioner friend gave me an appointment on my very birthday for a rejuvenating, enlightening treatment session. Nothing like a good "clearing" as they say in the business. Third, Lauren asked me to stop by her house while I was out so she could give me a gift on my actual birthday. We ended up making a trip to the mall where my grand kids played at the indoor playground and we all ate See's chocolates. There were fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh other little surprises that made the day perfect. But the cherry on top of what one friend said should be an Epic Birthday came later.
Dalene took me to a salon for a pedicure on Friday. It was her gift to me and it was heavenly. We enjoyed all the usual stuff with the massage chairs and the making-feet-soft-and-pretty. (Including a paraffin wax foot bath. Oh, my! Why didn't someone tell me about this sooner?) When we first arrived at the salon, I had chosen a color for my nails that basically called to me. Seriously, as I perused the hundreds of colors on the wall, this one may have actually been singing my name.
When all the pampering was done and we were walking toward the door to leave, Dalene stopped and said, "Wait! You have to find out the name of the nail polish color. These O.P.I names are the BEST!" So we turned around. I went back and picked up the bottle, turned it upside down, pushed my glasses onto my forehead, squinted to focus my fifty-year-old eyes on the tiny print on the tiny white circular tag on the bottom of the bottle. "It's MY Year"
3 comments:
Serendipity would be a great name for a nail polish. I enjoyed our "spa day" and appreciated your playing along with making an hour of pampering feel like a whole day.
Love you--
p.s. Still love the image of the balloon as you described it to me Thursday morning. I can still see it.
Yes, Dalene. The "rescue" and cleaning of the fallen balloons (including fetching of the gutter balloon as it made its way southward toward the storm drain) was a shining moment. . . the moment when perspective shifted and my birthday became truly, inalterably happy!
Thanks for reading.
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