Happy Birthday To Me

Today I am 36 years old. There's no denying it anymore; I am officially middle-aged. Which is fine, I guess, though I certainly don't FEEL middle-aged; I guess no one ever does.

I took three days off work, in an effort to compensate for that long week of moving, and so I spent my birthday catnapping with Snickers and watching PBS cartoon shows. LJ is out of town--fine and dandy with me!--and so I took myself to dinner at Leona's.

Some of you might be saying "What a crappy birthday!" And by most people's standards, I guess it is. But I was happy with it--a long day of lounging in my pajamas, a purring kitten in one ear, comfort-food on the television...I can live with that, you know?

I think about the other birthdays I've had, trying to remember them all.

My 18th birthday, my boyfriend gave me roses.

My 19th birthday, he picked up our favorite Mexican food, just in time for me to eat before leaving for my night-shift factory job.

I don't remember 20.

My 21st birthday, I was away at summer school, trying to pick up my elusive last few credit hours before student teaching. Firefly was my roomie at the time, and two of our friends came down for the weekend. We went to the bars and they decorated my car, but I remember being sad that my fiance couldn't make it down to Champaign.

I don't remember 22. I remember that everything had changed; that in the space of that last year, I'd broken off my engagement, fallen in love with someone else, moved in with him, pissed off Carol--my roommate at the time--and then stood by aghast while she hooked up with Darius, who (as she knew) I secretly loved. She moved out not long after. I remember it was a lonely birthday.

I don't remember 23, though I do remember that David--who I'd married a couple of months before--didn't get me anything for my birthday. That was a lonely birthday too.

24 was an angry birthday. I wanted to spend it with JP--we had admitted that we were in love with each other, but we hadn't yet done anything irrevocable--but David wanted me to go with him to some pizza place in Zion that a "business associate" of his owned. I remember watching "John Larroquette" on the bar TV and wishing I could do what I wanted, instead of what David wanted.

I don't remember details of my 25th birthday. I remember I was with JP, and we had money, so we had food; and I know that because we had money, we got high. But I don't remember details. Maybe if I'd known what was coming, I would have remembered more carefully.

The night before my 26th birthday, I'd dragged Sophia out of a drunken fight with two guys, and so the next morning I went with her bright and early to retrieve the purse she'd dropped as she left. That was a few months after JP's death, and it was also the day my mother told me that on the morning of the day he'd died, she'd prayed for a "miracle" to bring me home. I was packing for North Carolina when she told me this; otherwise I don't know what I would have done in response to that information. I left the next morning.

On the morning of my 27th birthday I left again; this time to come back to Chicago. I hadn't realized how homesick I would become. This time I left with Lou, JP's and my old roommate, who had come to Charlotte to drive back with me--and who, in the space of only a few days staying with us, had managed to piss off our conservative, family-oriented minority neighbors by asking around as to where he might locate some crack. Lou was stupid, sometimes, but that didn't stop me from sleeping with him.

My 28th birthday was spent getting home from downstate Illinois; Sophia had enlisted me to ride along with her to the family's ranch in Texas, but we had stopped over for the night at her grandmother's house, and sometime during the night I decided that it was more important to go back to the city and score. And so I did.

The night of my 29th birthday, Tim showed up on my front doorstep with his only surviving cat--the other had perished in a hot car as he returned from Arizona--and walked in the door with the following sentence: "It wasn't my idea; I had nothing to do with it, it was his decision." I didn't know what he meant, but I knew that CR was supposed to be with him, and wasn't, and so it was easy to fill in the blanks and figure out that he'd gone back to his old girlfriend, instead of me.

My 30th birthday was right around the time CR was coming back into my life, but I don't remember the details.

My 31st birthday, I worked--because I didn't want to think about what was happening at home that night. That was the night that the 400-Pound Woman moved in with us.

My 32nd birthday was a few weeks after CR had left me for good. My mother took me out to dinner (at Leona's, now that I think about it!), but that was all I did for that birthday. Except cry--I know I cried. (And when I think about that now, I wonder what the hell for? I was SO much better off without him.)

My 33rd birthday, LJ stayed over at my apartment and I was completely happy.

My 34th birthday--the first one in the new house--I took myself to see "Shrek 2", since LJ had completely forgotten it was my birthday. So much for romance!

And my birthday last year--number 35--was spent in the hospital, having my pancreas suctioned, and thus ranks as the Worst Birthday Ever. In fact, barring even WORSE medical shit happening on some future birthday, I'm thinking 35 is going to take the prize permanently.

So to spend 36 at home, quiet and peaceful, napping with an adorable fluffy kitten on my shoulder--hey, that's bliss. Of course I'd RATHER be in the arms of some beautiful, brilliant, passionate man whom I adore and who can't keep his hands off me...but hey, we can't have everything. This will do just fine.

Tomorrow, off to Mom's for the night. She's having an angiogram Thursday morning, and she's understandably worried; it might be nothing, and then again it might not. Since I was on vacation anyway, she asked me to take her for the angiogram; I think she needs moral support. We're both expecting a not-so-good result. She's had too many unexplained symptoms for too long. We'll see what happens.

She turned 77 the other day. She could live another 25 years...or not. And then I will really be alone, which is not something I like to contemplate. But she's conscientious about her health, and she has good doctors. Hopefully everything will turn out all right. Everyone important in my life is having medical issues of one sort or another--Mom's heart problems, Firefly's calcifications-that-might-be-something-more; even Debbi has heel spurs and can't walk well. I've suddenly reached an age where even my friends are vulnerable--that's the part of middle-age I'm not prepared for. I've been so lucky, and I know it.

Is it possible to be lonely and happy at the same time? Because if it is, I am. A little more lonely than I'd rather be, but I'm counting my blessings. And if that passionate, beautiful man isn't among those blessings right now...well, that can change. And his absence, no matter how long it lasts, doesn't make the other good things any less.

(But he COULD speed it up a bit, if he's out there...)