Make a Wish

By TAD BARTIMUS

I do not subscribe to the philosophy of ignoring birthdays after reaching a certain age; I believe in whooping it up, thereby reassuring myself I'm still here.

Months ago I decided that on my special day I would wear purple, spit on the sidewalk and speak my mind. I would remember my parents, seek out a child, soak in the tub and not complain that nobody had emptied the cat box. I would be joyous and serene. It would be a perfect (and perfectly orchestrated) day. But where to spend it?

Why should one day be different from the rest? I surrendered to the steady pulse of my usual life: chronically late, over-extended, forgetful. It made the day's serendipity that much sweeter.

I considered Paris, but rejected it (too expensive, too far, too French). I also deep-sixed any Big Party idea; I was the one who wound up washing all the dishes after my 40th.

Friends who have already celebrated their midlife milestone weighed in with their own memories: opening up hotel curtains to see the Matterhorn framed in the window; diving with dolphins, dancing to an orchestra.

I decided to keep it simple and, above all, not lift a finger.

I awoke to a radio announcer intoning: "red sky at morning, sailor take warning." It should have been a tip-off. There was the usual breakfast-time "I'm late, gotta go" chaos. Then the garbage disposal levitated while grinding up eggshells. Faster than you can yell "PLUMBER!" the kitchen floor was covered with greasy pieces and Mr. Fix-It was explaining why he couldn't.

"Should have the parts in a couple of weeks," he said, beating a hasty retreat.

A knock at the door: "Hey Lady! I'm here to pick up that defective mattress you bought last week. Grab the other end, will 'ya? I've got a bad back. Oh, sorry, was that your foot?"

Still in my bathrobe, the phone rang: "You were supposed to meet us for lunch 20 minutes ago! The cake is melting . . ."

Why should one day be different from the rest? I surrendered to the steady pulse of my usual life: chronically late, over-extended, forgetful. It made the day's serendipity that much sweeter:

How did that little girl in my husband's sixth grade class remember it was my birthday? "Because I wrote it down last year." Of course.

How did the postmaster know to hand me a U.S. Government-issue pen for a present? "Maybe the two dozen greeting cards in your mailbox were a tip off."

How did my husband decide on a handmade basket instead of jewelry? "It was on your Christmas wish list last year, remember? Being cheaper had nothing to do with it."

Flowers from neighbors' gardens appeared on the doorstep. Somebody left fresh tomatoes tied up with a bow. I gave myself an hour with my "photo albums," a misnomer for the hundreds of pictures I've just thrown into boxes over the years in hopes that someday I'll get time to organize them. As I charted my celluloid life through ponytail, mini skirt, wedding dress and a streak of gray in my hair I was struck by all of the friends standing around me, aging right along with me.

By suppertime there were a dozen of us gathered on a porch for a spontaneous potluck. Presiding over the festivities was an octogenarian quadriplegic who, with the aid of a brace, heroically lifted her champagne glass and offered a toast: LEHAYIM! PROSIT! TO LIFE! Since we were celebrating on a farm, it seemed natural that a brood hen sitting atop three eggs, a lame goose and a sway-backed horse solemnly witnessed the proceedings.

Just as the first star appeared folks who'd been drifting in and out of the house on a surreptitious mission carried to me a fresh-from-the-oven chocolate confection ablaze with candles: "Make a wish!"

World peace? No more hunger? A cure for AIDS? Of course. But most of all, I wish for another day.

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