"It's just a number"
I've heard that twice in the last couple of days. For any female fast approaching her 50th birthday, the phrase rings hollow.
My immediate family either doesn't realize it's my 50th or they think that they shouldn't mention it. Doesn't make a difference. It's on my mind.
They only started asking me a few days ago what I wanted. My requests are pretty simple (in my mind). 1.)A blu-ray player so I could watch my daughter's box set of Game of Thrones. 2.)Some TV trays, so we can eat dinner in the living room more comfortably ('cause the diningroom table is always covered in projects).
3.) And tickets to a Giants game at home in SF. From my husband's reaction, you would have thought I'd asked for the moon. He would have to “pick” a date, “plan” a trip, and “purchase” tickets. Oh my. For a guy who can plan, approve and execute multi-million dollar business deals, acquisitions and mergers, from our home office in his bathrobe, surely, arranging to go to a baseball game in another city shouldn't be that difficult. Surely?
Then there's the daughters. They keep asking me what I want. I keep repeating the above three things. I mentioned to one of them, weeks ago, that it might be nice to have some neighbors over to celebrate, have a small (or a big) party. (Apparently that idea did not resonate.) They've been asking me what I want to do for dinner. Dine here or go out? If we went out, where to go? Do you like this restaurant or that? Sushi? Brunch? Mexican?
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I am the one who always makes the plans here. Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, vacations. And when they go wrong, I get the flack. So . . . I told them all (Dad included) that I didn't want to make the plans for my own birthday:
“Surprise me.”
Apparently, they don't know how to do that, because they are still asking me what I want to do. What I want, is NOT to have to plan my own fucking birthday!
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Ten years ago still sticks in my mind. We had been planning a big party for my 40th birthday, but a collapsed mainline sewer and the resulting sudden lack of money canceled all party plans. That birthday was particularily depressing, with nothing being planned, not even dinner. I ended up having to pick up the phone and order pizza for my own damned dinner. They gave me some gifts, though, what, I don't remember. I probably had a cake, but I may have made it myself. What I do remember is feeling spectacularily sorry for myself.
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So here I am 10 years later, and not much has changed. The effort that I've put into other people's birthday celebrations is unlikely to be reciprocated. Perhaps I've made them too reliant on me. I've let them be too passive. I've failed to make my needs and expectations clear.
Now, I could be wrong. They may have something really marvelous planned for me. A surpise party at a restaurant with all my friends there. (It wouldn't be hard to find them through Facebook.) Maybe my husband has purchased me a really hot, red sportscar (there is money available). Perhaps a crew is going to show up and install the kitchen counter I've been lusting after for the last 12 years (Home Depot has the measurements). Or maybe they got me one of those amazing kinetic wind sculptures that we saw in Zion. That should be easy. Totally available online. No-one would even have to leave the house.
But, in my heart of hearts, I don't think any of that is going to happen. We've programmed our families' all too well. They believe that moms are content with less. We eat the heels from the last loaf of bread, we give our kids the last piece of cake. We wear underwear with the stretched out elastic because the child needed some new rollerskates. Our bras have holes in them because getting you that video game seemed more important than a new foundation garments. We survive on smiles and hugs, not bon bons and flowers.
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Fifty is not just a number. It's when AARP starts cramming your mailbox with retirement planning offers. It's when menopause is not just a theory. It's when you can no longer fit into that 40-49 demographic checkbox. It's when you don't just “look good” any more. It's when you “look good for your age.”
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Yes, it would have been nice to have a party. But parties are usually better in theory than practice. It's an added expense. There's always stuff to clean up. Someone usually drinks too much. Feelings are hurt.
We are hosting a big party in September, our oldest daughter's wedding and I'm on the hunt for a “mother of the bride” dress. It's a challenge. Don't want it to be too formal or too casual. Can't have it too frumpy, but sexy mama is a no-no. Too elegant and classy might make the groom's mother look bad by contrast, but shabby chic might impart of lack of respect to the seriousness of the event. I'm leaning towards bohemian - kind of a crazy, fuck you, I'll wear what I want cause I'm over 50 style. There's something to be said for the Red-Hat ladies. They aren't quiet or self-sacrificing. They've left their mothering years behind them and are doing what they want, when they want, in hideous colors.
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I saw a TV reporter interviewing a woman recently. I don't recall the news story, but I do recall being fascinated by her. She was loud. She was black. She was not afraid to tell everyone what she thought. If she wanted to have a birthday party, she would not have been quiet about it. She would have told everyone, and made damned sure it happened.
That what I want for my birthday. I want to be her.
