52 Pick-Up

I ushered out my year of being fifty-two crumpled up on the unseasonably warm November pavement, retching like a high school kid after her first illicit drinking party. I was just coherent enough to wonder where the fun was in all of that. With some help, I picked myself up, and went home to put me, and a year filled with its share of silly games and bad jokes (and, to be fair, some good stuff), to bed.

I ushered in my fifty-third birthday with a pounding headache and a firm resolve to stay "up." And never to drink on an empty stomach. The barrage of well-wishing texts and phone calls began early, topped off by a steady stream throughout the day of "happy birthday" comments on my Facebook timeline (whatever that is), all making me feel optimistic and a tad bit more special than I actually am. I felt ready to pick up the pieces of a hectic fifty-two, and with the help of several doses of Advil, I felt more than ready to crack open a new deck and deal myself a new hand for fifty-three.

When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping, which is exactly how my daughters and I kicked off my celebratory weekend in downtown Chicago. Retail therapy is a potent narcotic, not to be overused or abused, naturally, but highly effective whether you are shopping for yourself or for others. Three hours passed in what seemed to be a minute, and as we carried our packages back to our hotel, exhausted and starving, we had a bit of an extra spring in our collective step. The only thing that could have made the afternoon nicer was having my son join us, and he may have even viewed it as an appealing alternative to what he was actually doing -- playing Santa in some shopping mall in Japan. WTF?

Dinner, at a favorite old haunt in the neighborhood where my husband and I started building our little family so many years ago, was festive and delicious, made even better as we sported some of our new purchases. We exited to a ridiculously balmy November night, and decided to walk the almost four miles back to our hotel. It was a walk through my early years in Chicago, a tour of long forgotten neighborhoods that, despite some updates and changes in dining and shopping establishments, seemed strangely familiar. The sidewalks were busy enough to feel lively but not too busy to impede our progress. The residential blended seamlessly into the commercial; even the dogs out for their evening walks appeared to relish the diverse sounds and smells of their surroundings. There were couples and individuals and groups, there were people of different ages and nationalities. People from all walks of life, Chicago natives no matter where they came from, enjoying the rare beautiful night in a city that rarely sleeps but certainly hibernates for a few challenging months of winter.

Memories of my young adulthood flooded back. Runs along the lake front. Leisurely walks home from work. Strolls to the zoo with two young children in a cumbersome double stroller. Old guys (meaning guys in their thirties, maybe forties) playing sixteen inch softball. Hot summer afternoons at crowded beaches with the city skyline as a backdrop. Funny how selective memory can be. As we walked, I recalled no frustration with work, no ennui, no tiring days taking care of kids and trying to escape for an occasional night out. Certainly no marital strife, just all the good stuff, in a place that did nothing but twinkle, as it did last night. Not even the occasional breeze whipping hardened fall leaves and errant beach sand in our faces could dampen my recollections of a place and a time I longed to recapture. If only for the chance to appreciate it more -- get a bit of a do-over.

Back at the hotel, our feet a little achy but our spirits high, we feasted on my favorite kind of birthday cake and watched a movie. Okay, well I may have missed most of the middle, but since it was still technically my birthday when it ended my daughters were kind enough to fill in some of the gaps for me. Even thirty-three floors up, we could feel the energy of Michigan Avenue, sense the life that would continue on well into the night, long after most of suburbia has fallen into a restless middle aged sleep.

My game of 52 pick up is over, and the first hand of my year of being fifty-three has been dealt. So far, so good. My house of cards has been battered but is still standing. In these days of apocalyptic storms and changing climates beyond my control, I am thankful for that.