Ring!
The sudden blast
from my cell phone startles me, causing me to jump and make the smoky eye I was
trying to perfect turn into a badly done cat-eye. I checked the number on the
front of the screen: Marsha, my best friend of 10 years.
“Yesss?”
I say, putting on my affected voice I always use when friends call, somewhere
between seductive and annoyed.
“Go
shorty, it’s ya birthday!” chirps Marsha, doing her best impression of 50 Cent.
Rolling my eyes, I grabbed a tissue with my free hand and began to fix the
disaster that was my makeup.
“You do realize we
are now far too old to be rapping 50 Cent songs now, don’t you? That’s only OK
in your early 20’s. Actually, I’m not so sure its ever OK.”
“Oh, and because
you’re turning 30 youre what, an old maid? Puh-leeze. You just need a solid
night out with the girls where we let loose, shake our booties and score free
drinks! Are you almost ready?”
It was true, I was
turning 30 the next day and even though I was joking around with Marsha, I had
been dreading this day since as far as I could remember. As a little girl, I
had consulted a calendar that gave future dates, wanting to see what day my 30th
birthday would fall on. A Saturday. Perfect, I had thought, that way, my fabulous
and successful husband can watch our two beautiful kids, a boy and a girl,
while I celebrate with my equally fabulous group of friends. What a funny
little kid I had been.
“Yeah I just have
to find my comfy heels first. Actually, never mind, I think that’s an oxymoron.
Gimme ten minutes.”
“Sorry, no can do.
I’m already on my way to your casa to pick you up.” Thanks for the warning, I thought.
Snapping my phone
shut, I looked up at myself in the mirror, seeing my less than enthused face
peering back. The truth was, the last thing I felt like doing was going out on
the town to celebrate another year gone by, but I had let my friends talk me
into a “girl’s night” and I didn’t have the heart to tell them that what I really wanted was to change into sweats,
crawl into bed and watch bad tv. Besides, Marsha was already on her way, and
there was no getting out of this one. I had selected my favorite dress, the
black one that seemed to streamline my squat, athletic body, hoping it would
boost my confidence and make me excited to “hit the town” as Marsha always put
it. Crouching down to ease my feet into the heels, I jumped at the sound of the
doorbell. “Here goes nothing”, I say, passing my reflection in the mirror on my
way out the door.
***********
“Ohmigod, I love
this song!” my close friend, Lissa said as soon as we got into the bar,
immediately throwing her hands up and dancing. The bass was slamming throughout
the smallish bar, aptly named The Scene, as it seemed that’s where everyone had
decided to go that night. It was one of those pretentious places that had a
line out in front, which was snaked to the end of the block when we go there.
Not that it mattered, we always got in when we went out with Lissa; I loved the
girl, but she didn’t keep much to the imagination when it came to dressing.
That and I’m pretty sure I saw her whisper something to the burly bouncer as we
approached the entrance. Our friend Alexa came out that night too, and at 5 foot 9 and white-blonde hair, she
was no slouch. Going out with an all-female groups almost guarantees admittance
into any club, she had once told me. It was a god idea in theory, just make
sure you’re not the least attractive in the group.
I had made up my
mind to really try to have a good time, and so far was putting on a good
charade. The truth was, I was the oldest in the group, a fact that, despite how
shallow it seemed, it was all I could fixate on. Lissa and Alexa were both 28
still, whereas I had trouble even remembering when I was that age. They seemed
to possess endless amounts of energy, flitting around like they had finally
found the place they most belonged; their own personal Mecca.
“..cute, right?” I
realized I hadn’t been listening to anything the girls were saying, but with
Lissa talking, I assumed it was about a guy.
“Yeah, totally”, I
agreed, completely unsure of who she was even referring to. The music had
somehow gotten even louder in the 10 minutes we had been there, and the
beginning of a migraine was forming in the back of my skull. They’re doing this for you, I chided
myself, the least you could do is pretend
to have fun. Swigging the last of the Cosmo I had been drinking that tasted
oddly like sour mix, I turned in the direction she was looking, my glance
falling on a guy three bar stools down that was looking back at us.
“Soo, are you
gonna go over there and introduce yourself?” she asked, wide eyed and waiting
for my response. “You gotta secure yourself a man soon, Chels!”
Her reasoning was
not lost on me; for all women approaching or surpassing the 30th birthday,
the benchmarks of success switch from a great career, friends and nice things
to mother hood, getting married, and moving to the suburbs. Living in Mamaronek,
New York, I had only attained one of those.
Before I could
answer her (with a firm no, I was not), I was tapped on the shoulder and
swiveling around, I saw it was the guy we were just ogling.
“Excuse me, I hate
to be so forward, but that was you that arrived here with a group of your girlfriends,
yes?” So much for introductions.
“Yes, it was, my
name’s Chelsea,” I said, extending
my hand.
“Rob, pleasures
all mine. Listen, I must tell you,” he said leaning in as though he was about
to share a secret with me, “You have the finest ass in the place.” Well, so
much for that.
An hour later we
had found Marsha and Alexa and I was feeling no better about the evening, the
three Cosmos I’d drunk doing nothing for my mood. Despite it being 1:30
am, my contacts beginning to blur with fatigue, the girls were
still going strong. The night only served to make me more depressed about my
birthday, the brightly dressed women in their early twenties stumbling around
in their too-high heels, talking more loudly than necessary, a constant
reminder that I was officially too old for this scene. Telling the girls that
would only give them reason to tell me how fabulous I was, how successful, that
I could have any guy in the room and age was just a number. “And besides,
turning thirty isn’t that big a deal! It’s not like, forty or anything”, Marsha had told me earlier in the week,
actually shuddering at the mere thought of it. Sometimes she was so immature,
but that was actually kind of endearing about her, her childishness.
Telling the girls
I had a killer headache, we decided to have a last drink and leave. I knew I
was being a party pooper, but hell it was my party, and in addition to my
headache, there was a dull ache somewhere in my chest that I couldn’t pinpoint.
Sure, I was turning thirty, lived alone and had no significant other to speak
of, my last boyfriend ending things when he decided to become a born-again
Christian and devote his life to God, effectively terminating our relationship
on account of my being Jewish, this pang was different than any other I’d
experienced. It seemed to come from
someplace deep within the confines of my heart in a place I didn’t know
existed.
*******
The next morning I
awoke with a wicked hangover, my dress still on and twisted up around my
midsection. At least I remembered to take
off my shoes, I thought, disgusted with myself. Rubbing my eyes, my
contacts still in them, I grabbed my cell and looked at the time with one eye,
my vision refusing to focus. 11:11 am.
Marsha was a big believer in superstitions, and never failed to make a wish
when she saw it was 11:11, her
reasoning being it was the only time all the numbers were the same. “Ok, then
what about 4:44? Or 3:33? Or-”
“Be-cause, it’s the only time there are four
numbers that are all the same, and when they line up, you can make a wish,” she
had replied, emphasizing her words as though speaking with someone a bit slow. This
birthday morning, all I wished for was a greasy breakfast and a ginger ale, and
after taking my contacts out, washing the raccoon eyes that had been my ‘smoky
eye’ look last night, and brushing my teeth, I went to the deli on the corner
that served the best breakfast sandwiches in the world. After buying the
sandwich and driving home, I raced into the driveway of my duplex eager to tear
into it, my stomach grumbling with a mixture of hunger and hangover.
“Hey, lady!”
Whirling around, I
prepared myself for an altercation when I recognized the prematurely lined face
of my neighbor, Jose.
“Ugh, Jose, you
scared me!”
“Hey, lady, you
scared me the way you flew into the parking spot here! Thought you was on fire
the way you’re driving!” his deep, good natured voice boomed from across the
small lawn. Laughing and shaking his head, he wished me a good day and
disappeared inside his home, the shouts and squeals of his two kids, delighted
as always to see their dad, sailing through the open windows, my heart giving a
funny jump at the sound of their voices.
Turning my key
into my lock, I was immediately hit by the shock of silence as I walked into my
living room, decorated in muted earth tones with help from feng shui- obsessed
Marsha. (“It will totally open up
your space, it makes it look way bigger!” she had assured me). I had to admit,
the tones and placement of the furniture did
open the small space up, but suddenly I wasn’t sure that was a good thing. After all, it was just me here, it wasn’t like
I had roommates to share it with..
After showering
and answering the obligatory happy birthday calls from friends and family, I
decided to get dressed and go out window shopping, refusing to allow myself to
lie around all day. I spent the day window shopping and popping into quaint
stores I never had the time to go into but had always been curious about, buying
myself a trinket bracelet and a top. The day was coming to a close when I
decided to stop into Melinda’s, a coffee shop with the most amazing cinnamon
buns. I’m getting old, I thought, I may
as well get fat, too.
Sitting down at
the tiny Formica table I was just getting to the good part of the bun where all
the cinnamon was, when as woman about my age popped in, pushing a stroller and
balancing a baby on her hip. She looked tired but had this glow about her that
I couldn’t explain, but found myself wanting to ask her where it came from, and
she took a seat at the table next to mine, humming a song to her sleeping
child.
“What a beautiful
baby you have, how old is he?” I asked, hoping she would indulge me and not
look at me like some creepy spinster.
“Oh thank you, yes
he’s the absolute love of my life. His name is Peter and he is 11 months old
yesterday.”
“Aw, how nice,” I
said, unsure of what the proper response was.
“Yeah, my husband
and I tried unsuccessfully for years before he came into our lives,” she said,
looking down adoringly at her sleeping son in his stroller. I realized I had
never looked at anyone or anything that way myself. Sure, when I see a really
great pair of heels 40% off I probably came close, but there was something.. different about this look, something
that says nothing else matters.
“Iced tea?” the
man behind the counter said, and the woman jumped up, adjusting her diaper bag
and grabbed her drink. “Well, it was nice meeting you..?”
“Chelsea.”
“Well, it was nice
meeting you Chelsea, my name is
Karen, hope to see you around!” and with that, she walked out, the bells of the
door jingling behind her. I must’ve sat there for an hour reflecting on what
had just transpired and trying to pinpoint the flood of emotion entering my
heart because the next thing I knew, the man behind the counter was closing up,
the sign now facing me read Yes, We’re Open! I paid my bill and walked out into
the balmy night, knowing that there in fact
was something missing in my life, and it wasn’t a man, or a fabulous
wardrobe, or anything I could buy. It was a baby of my own.
