I’ve imagined all week they’ve been feigning excitement, the
girlfriends who have chosen to celebrate by milestone birthday with me in
Vegas. Not that anybody needs an excuse to leave Chicago for a few days in a
November that already feels a bit like February. But it was summer when we
cooked up the idea, and I still can’t help but feel a little self-conscious
that they are making this trip for me.
Excitement, gratitude, an occasional twinge of anxiety, a
fear that nobody will have fun. That twinge evaporated by last night though,
lost in a crescendo of emojis -- party hats and champagne popping and clouds of
confetti, texts about packing (with even the more holier than thou among us –
namely me – finally succumbing to the need to check a bag), and sordid and self-deprecating texts that
only women of a certain age would find amusing.
I abandoned my laptop, made myself a dirty martini in my new shaker, and
rummaged through my closets and tried on all sorts of things I know I’ll never
wear out in public but what better way to get in the mood. Turquoise cowboy
boots and khaki shorts; a tame prelude to what I imagine will happen – and stay
– in Vegas.
The guy who took my bag at the airport told me to have fun,
and reminded me not to tell. There’s a certain appeal to that, the notion that
you can transport yourself somewhere and transform yourself, if only for a
moment. I doubt I can shake 59 years, 363 days of relative self-restraint, but
then again I’ve never been to Vegas with the girls. At least my daughters will
be there to roll their eyes at me before I do anything silly. Or after.
I am giddy this morning. Excited and grateful, and free of
anxiety. I cannot wait to greet them all as they drift in, hand them their
drinks, settle comfortably into the cozy cocoon they have woven over all these
years, the women in my life. My friends, who know me better than anybody
possibly could and still hang around. My daughters, who have no choice but to
hang around, who remind me every day of the good I have contributed, in spite
of myself. They are, all of the women in my life, the icing on my birthday
cake, the blue cheese in my olives, the dirty in my martini.
I am about to land in Sin City, on the precipice of yet
another chapter. Sixty, all of a sudden, does not seem so bad.
