When you're 20 or 30 or even 40 you can't imagine being 50. But all of a sudden there it is, smacking you in the face and you think, "Holy shit, how did that happen?" It's better, as they say, than the alternative but really...holy shit.
I thought maybe I could ignore my fiftieth birthday and it would go away but Michael, my significant other, called on his way home from work, bursting my balloon of denial.
“Let’s go to that new sushi restaurant for dinner tonight,” he said. “What do you think?”
“We don’t have to go out tonight,” I said, thinking that crawling into bed and pulling the covers over my head would be a better alternative. ”We’re celebrating at my folks’ tomorrow.”
“I know, but we should celebrate today. It’s not every day you turn fifty.”
“Thank god,” I said, examining my face in the hall mirror, pulling back sagging skin on my neck with my free hand.
Michael and I had been together nearly two years. We didn’t live together but traded off staying at each others’ houses several times a week. It was a nice arrangement and we had a sweet, comfortable relationship, far more peaceful than any relationship I’d been in before, including my two marriages.
We’d planned that he’d stay at my house tonight but I was thinking we’d spend the evening quietly at home with a nice bottle of wine and take-out from my favorite Szechwan restaurant. But Michael sounded so pleased with his sushi idea that I agreed. It was just dinner out, after all, not, I knew, a surprise party. I’d made him swear more than once that he’d never do that to me and Michael was a man of his word.
Now, while I waited for him to return phone calls and take a shower, I turned on my computer, double-clicked the AOL icon and heard, “Welcome! You’ve got mail!” I loved that. It was like winning a little prize.
An email from my mother said,
Happy birthday, Libby. I can’t believe you’re 50! It makes me feel so old.
Tell me about it, I thought.
I’m making some of your favorite things for dinner tomorrow. Come over about 6.
By the way, I saw this article on retirement planning and thought you might be interested.
She’d attached a link to an Internet article titled Retirement Planning for the Single Woman. My dressmaking/tailoring business was thriving but since I’d quit my corporate job as a graphic designer six years ago I could never convince my parents I was financially secure. I think they worried that my clients would dry up and I’d end up living in a cardboard box under an expressway. Or worse yet, at their house.
I answered emails from clients, checked an eBay auction and then I scanned the AOL welcome box with news briefs and weather forecasts and “Best Cities to Retire In.” At the top was a hyperlink for SearchForSchoolmates.com and I smiled at the picture of a girl who could have graduated in my high school class in the seventies. She wore a dark turtleneck sweater with a locket on a small gold chain, and had long straight hair parted down the middle, exactly like my own senior picture.
I navigated to the website, typed in the name of my high school, the years I attended and my own name, Elizabeth Carson, and a list of 104 alumni from my graduating class came up. Familiar names jumped out at me; Mary Blevins, Susan Caldwell, Danny Davis. I could picture Danny’s blond hair and dazzling smile and wondered if he was still cute or if he’d gotten fat and wrinkled.
Page two was more of the same and vague memories swam through my brain. It had been thirty-two years since I’d seen any of these kids. The thought that these kids were all fifty now made me wince.
I was on page three when I saw a name that warmed my heart. Patrick Harrison. Patrick had been my first love, the one I’d thought I couldn’t live without. He was the bad boy with long hair, the one my parents didn’t like and I couldn’t resist. I remembered how we’d walk through the tiled halls holding hands; how he’d drop me off at my classroom, kiss me goodbye, and my heart would just about beat out of my chest. I thought I’d never survive until the hour passed and I could see him again. I could clearly recall that sweet terror, the heart palpitations, the blush that started at my chest and infused my whole body when he walked toward me. Was it possible to feel that way at fifty, I wondered, or did that only happen to teenagers?
“Libby,” Michael called, “you about ready?”
“Be right there,” I said and saved the SearchForSchoolmates.com website to my Favorite Places.
Michael seized a piece of sushi with chopsticks and popped it into his mouth.
“Raw fish good,” he said in his best caveman voice.
While we waited for our dessert of green tea ice cream Michael told me about new houses for sale and a demanding new client he’d just started working with. He was one of the top real estate agents in the city and while I admired his dedication he always gave me more details than I cared to know. So now I nodded and smiled and thought about Patrick Harrison, wondering what he did for a living. I couldn’t imagine. Definitely not an attorney. Definitely not an accountant. I knew I was going to send him an email but what would I say? Hi, remember me? Remember when we slept together on New Year’s Eve when we were seventeen?
The slender Japanese waitress brought two tulip-shaped glass dishes, each containing a perfect scoop of green tea ice cream. Mine had a sparkler twinkling in the middle.
“Happy birthday,” she and Michael said in unison. I braced myself for them to break into song and blew out a relieved breath when they didn’t. I pulled the sparkler out and we both dug in, remarking how yummy it was; cold and creamy. Then Michael put down his spoon, reached into his pocket and placed a small black velvet box in front of me. I blinked at it.
“Open it,” he said pushing it closer.
I didn’t want to. I had a bad feeling. It was surely a ring but what kind? Hopefully a cocktail ring. Or a friendship ring. A wisp of trepidation wrapped around my throat.
The waitress and two busboys stood watching from a respectful distance, grinning like kids with a new Game Boy. “Go on,” Michael said.
What could I do? Refuse? So while everyone watched I gingerly lifted the little lid. There, like a searchlight, sat an enormous diamond ring. My mouth fell open. The waitress clapped her hands together.
“Will you marry me, Libby?”
I stared. Marry him? Fifty percent of all marriages fail, I thought. Not to mention one hundred percent of mine. What was he thinking? “My god, Michael, it’s huge.” What I wanted to say was, What the fuck, Michael? If you wanted to get married couldn’t we have talked about it privately instead of turning it into a spectacle? “How could I wear this? It’s bigger than my fist,” I said. He laughed. “You shouldn’t have bought this, Michael. I’m too old for an engagement ring.” And I don’t want to marry you, I thought. I don’t want to marry you or anyone else. Marriage doesn’t work for me.
“You’re never too old for diamonds,” he said
Well, of course I knew that, but still...
I noticed then that the only sound in the restaurant was the faint clanking of dishes from the kitchen and I looked around to find five or six tables of patrons watching me. A plump, gray-haired woman in a flower-print blouse smiled encouragingly. A small blonde girl sat on her knees, arms crossed on the back of the chair. It was like a movie set and Michael was enjoying being the center of attention as the romantic male lead. What was I supposed to do now? How could I say anything other than yes with all these people looking on?
“Put it on,” he said. I hesitated. “Go on.” I took it out of the box. I made a show of it being too heavy to lift. Michael and our little audience laughed. When I slid it on my finger his eyes sparkled and he leaned forward.
“Well?” he said. “Will you?”
I held up my hand and made another show of being blinded by the glitter. The crowd loved it but I was just stalling, trying to think what to do. The silence enveloped me as they all waited for my answer. I had a quick vision of taking off the ring, putting it safely in Michael’s hand and then running like hell out of the restaurant, disappearing down the street, maybe going into witness protection. Instead I said, “How could I not want to marry a man who would buy a ring like this?” Not a yes, I reasoned. An answer I could explain away later when I told him what I really meant was no.
The waitress let out a little squeak and there was a spattering of applause.
“Did you pay these people?” I asked.
Michael’s smile illuminated his face like a sunrise. He got up and came over, put his arms around me and pulled me close. “I love you, Libby,” he said and kissed me.
As I kissed him back I waited for the tingle, the blush, the thrill I’d felt with Patrick Harrison so many years ago. It didn’t come. What came was like a solid mass settling in my chest. Shit, I thought, what have I done?
“You’ve made me a very happy man,” Michael said, his eyes crinkling with pleasure. “We’ll have a great life together.” He laughed. “Well, we already do, but somehow it feels different now. Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I said. “It definitely feels different.”
