A Woman of a Certain Age

I just had a birthday, and despite a head full of quicksand from an unfortunately timed cold, it was very nice.

In recent years, I've learned to ask for what I want on my birthday. Most years, I make myself an appointment for a massage in the afternoon, but this year I knew that if I lay face down, my sinuses would not cooperate. There was also a strong likelihood that my meticulously orchestrated Girls Night Out was going to get smoked out by the fires, not to mention the very real possibility that myself or my guests could be fleeing for our lives, so I took a deep breath (scratch that--deep breathing just makes my lungs feel like clenched fists these days) and willed myself to be a dandelion, changing and adapting with the breeze.

By Saturday, the smoke had receded enough to return to the site of my earlier restaurant review, Lei Lounge, with nine of my nearest and dearest. As anticipated, there were yummy tapas, fruity drinks, surly waiters, overflowing cleavage, and revelry for all. Here is a snapshot of my favorite moment from the evening:

Scene: White leather cabana. Sam is opening gifts from generous guests (you shouldn't have, dear ones!) with one hand, and nibbling a VG cupcake with the other (Thank you, Mary!) Suddenly, a muscular young man appears. He is clad in a tight t-shirt, and asks if we're having fun. We are indeed, thank you very much.

T-shirt Boy: Well, that's great. I'm the house massage therapist, and I was just wondering if any of you ladies would like a massage.

(stunned silence)

Sam: Are you joking?

T-shirt Boy: Nope.

Sam: Hell, yeah!

And that, my dear Readers, is what those wise aphorism people call "the icing on the cake." Plus, I got actual icing.

It was a glorious evening, but the actual natal day dawned bright and feeling of crapcake. It didn't seem possible, but my cold was much worse. "Happy Birthday!" David said cheerily, "I'm bringing you the newspaper in bed! Then out for pancakes!"

"Don't wanna stay in bed," I whined. "My head hurts. Everything hurts. And I can't breathe. And I don't wanna go out, either."

Readers, I regret to admit that mature fortitude does not necessarily increase with age.

We did finally make it out for pancakes...for lunch. They were scrumptious. One of my birthday wishes had been a walk on the beach, but when David broached the subject I started in with the kvetching again. Luckily, he prevailed, because a walk on Coronado and a search from unbroken sand dollars in the bracing wave-wash was some kind of miracle cure. One hearty dose of sun, sand and sea air, and I felt better than I had in a week. And Jarrah got muddy and wet, which for her is the definition of time well spent .

When we got back, there was time for TV (easily justified as therapeutic) and a spot of nap before our heroic babysitter arrived. There had been talk of fancy dining, but my blunted taste buds blocked that plan, and just as well. Instead, we went to the new Burger Lounge in Kensington (my new goal is to frequent only places called "Lounge") and it was sublime. I don't say that lightly, either. David and I have sampled burgers in cities across this country and the world, and this was one of the best. Also, it was a warm evening, and we got to sit outside in downtown Kensington, which is a neighborhood where dining on the sidewalk is actually enjoyable. We had a little stroll afterwards, and I felt relaxed and peaceful for the first time in a while.

Then we went to see Dan in Real Life, which had looked promising, plus Juliette Binoche rocks. And she did, but the movie was a little stagey in its cuteness for me. Or maybe I'm just jealous that I can't convince my extended family to Jazzercise on our front lawn. One notable feature of the movie, though, that I must call attention to here: the family reunion key to the plot included a little girl who seemed to be adopted from China, and this detail WAS NEVER MENTIONED. I see this as a really positive depiction of international adoption, and one I hope will become the norm in visual media. The little girl, Bella, wasn't the family's adopted kid--she was just their kid, in a way that didn't require scrutiny or comment. Hooray for the ordinary! Amazingly, I realized when I saw her name in the credits (I do have a scary memory for names) that she was the same little girl featured in a New York Times Magazine article in April 2007 called "8 Things Never to Say to an Adopted Child" by Elizabeth Cuthrell. Cuthrell is a Hollwood producer and screenwriter, which is probably how her daughter got hooked up with the movie.

So, it was a subdued birthday compared to the decadence of last year, but it felt right. I bought myself an egg-sized faux-Aquamarine cocktail ring, and wore it on Saturday evening. "I felt it was time," I told the other girls who admired it, "Now that I'm a woman of a certain age, I need giant fake jewelry."

And how do I know that, Readers? It's all that wisdom that comes with age.