Cake.

I was accomplishing things I’d never imagined I could. Successful in my business, hanging with my beautiful friends, new and old, things were falling into place.

I share my birthday with International Women’s Day, March 8th. I just looked it up and it’s MUCH older than I am. 50 years older! I love International Women’s Day. It’s woman-powered. Like me.

From the time I was a little girl I always expected my birthday to feel magical. For the most part, it did. My mom and dad loved celebrating all kinds of occasions. For one day every year, I was the star. I ate what I wanted: CAKE! I got presents, cards, phone calls, and checks from my grandparents. But there was always a crash afterwards, an after-birthday emotional hangover, because I had to give up my star status… and then wait a whole year to feel special again.

I always adored my birthday until I turned 49, because anticipating 50 was horrendous. Turning 50 was rough. I don’t think I’ve ever been filled with a deeper sense of dread than I was leading up to that birthday. I was overwhelmed with my life, broke, and unemployed. I was living in New York City, in a place I didn’t want to be. I was struggling through the worst depression I’d ever had. My father was dying, and I’d survived a 2 month “retreat” on a locked ward. I had no idea what direction I was going, or where I might end up. I could tell you I was scared, but I think I was actually pretty numb.

The day of my 50th arrived and I got up, got dressed, and planned a solo day. I made a reservation for lunch at Union Square Cafe, restaurateur Danny Meyer’s first restaurant. It’s my favorite. The food is amazing, and the service without compare. I worked there when I was in my late 20s. I have Union Square Cafe pride. When I made the rez, I let them know I was former staff, and that it was my birthday. On my way downtown, I stopped at Paragon Sporting Goods, and treated myself to not one, but two pair of the most ridiculous, stupid shoes I’ve ever owned. They were “5-finger” toe shoes. Yeah, you know the kind. Uncomfortable as can be, no arch support, but trendy and cool. I wore them out of the store, and hobbled downtown to Astor Place Barbershop. I gritted my teeth and pretended that my feet weren’t screaming. When I got to Astor Place, I asked for Enzo, the guy who had cut my hair for over 20 years. They told me that he’d died. Hearing that he was dead made aging feel even worse. We had a special connection. I said a quick little rest-in-peace prayer to him, then got a zippy little buzz cut from Angela.

I continued my hobble to Union Square Cafe for my birthday lunch. The staff made a big deal of my arrival, seating me in the smaller back dining room, the one filled with beautiful art and dramatic floral arrangements, with a balcony above. Back in the day we used to eat family meal in that room. They treated me like queen, comping me champagne and dessert––a warm banana tart with a discreet candle. When I blew out the candle I made a wish for clarity.

That day was a lesson in being present to the present. It was a marvelous birthday. Leading up to it I’d spent so much energy fretting about it. And, although I needed to grieve some things, I had no idea how the actual day would turn out. By giving myself a lot of love that day, I had turned it around.

Four days later I jumped out of bed after a sleepless night. I knew exactly what I needed to do next. The thought that had come to me was, “I’m going to die if I don’t go home.” Yes, die. Maybe I was being a little hyperbolic, but I knew what I meant. The wish I’d made over that warm banana tart had come true. I was crystal clear. I had to move back to the Hudson Valley.

Several years before, I had left after 16 years of calling it home, to pursue love in Philadelphia. When that fell apart, I did too. Dealing with my dad’s illness, coupled with my fragile state after the breakup and a lack of resources is what had landed me in the hospital. That, and a pretty intense history of depression. But I had done what I had to do to get well. I knew it was time to return to the place I thought of as my true home. My mojo kicked in, and within two days I had a car, a place to live, and a job. All the heaviness and worry I’d been carrying around fell away. I was going home.

I moved back to upstate New York in the spring of 2011. Six weeks later my dad died. He left me money, and I was able to buy a house. No. A home. I started my own business, and my life shifted. After my 50th, my dread about aging quieted, and I started loving my birthday again. I was accomplishing things I’d never imagined I could. Successful in my business, hanging with my beautiful friends, new and old, things were falling into place. I was expressing myself creatively. I think getting older had something to do with my ability to achieve things I hadn’t thought possible. There was an urgency I’d never felt before.

Then Covid hit, the year leading up to my 60th birthday. My plan had been to throw a big party for myself. That didn’t happen, of course. Instead I celebrated by getting a tattoo. It’s a bracelet of semi-colons and marks powerful transitions in my life. And even though that birthday didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to, it was still wonderful.

This year, my sweetheart is throwing me a party. I’ve never had a partner do that before. We’ll be celebrating the 60th that didn’t happen. And 63, which is definitely happening. There will be friends. There will be music. And there will be cake.

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