I haven’t had a lot of birthday parties in my life. In fact, the only birthday party I had was when I was seven, and it was a surprise party thrown by my aunt for me (my mother was sick, and recovering from brain surgery at the time). It was a nightmare. I didn’t know a lot of the kids, and I hated being the center of attention. Basically, it instilled in me a deep dread of a) being the center of attention, and b) surprise parties.

Flash forward 40 years, and I find myself married to a man who likes nothing more than throwing parties. He likes planning parties, having people over – the whole nine yards of parties. One might call it my nightmare. Initially, it was really, really hard. I had to learn how to do small talk, and not want to crawl into a corner or under a rock until it was all over. Slowly but surely, though, over the years we’ve been together, darned if I’m not actually starting to enjoy parties. At least a little. Okay, sometimes even a lot.

So now we find ourselves at this past weekend – the weekend of my 50th birthday. As we had just gone to Europe in September, I put the kibosh on any expensive big deal celebration (like my friend Cheryl’s week long Cabo extravaganza for her 50th). I imagined it was going to be a quiet, contemplative day. It started out with a six-mile run, and then Chuck suggested brunch at the place around the corner. So far so good. After brunch, I noodled around on the computer and wrote a maudlin blog entry full of my deep thoughts about turning 50 while Chuck cleaned up poop and did some yard work. All typical Saturday activities (except for the maudlin blogging part). I got a few birthday phone calls from friends and family. We decided to go to a movie in the afternoon; Chuck was pushing The Bourne Supremacy, which I had no great desire to see. My choice was Into the Wild, Sean Penn’s movie version of Jon Krakauer’s fabulous book (and one of my all time favorites). With much reluctance (which I found annoying, given that it was my birthday and all), he gave in and we went to see Into the Wild. He had said we’d go out to dinner afterwards, but instead we headed home. It seemed an anticlimactic end to the day, but I thought, “Well, so it goes. A nice, unremarkable day.” I was waxing on about the movie, and about the quest to find yourself, and the romantic attraction of just leaving the world, and all of the people and hassles and drama of it, behind and reinventing yourself. While I was going on in this vein, my cell phone rang, and our friends Joan and martin serenaded me with Happy Birthday. I walked in the door still talking to them, and heard a dog bark. Not Mia, it was the high-pitched bark of Remy, our friend Kyra’s little poodle. In the time it took me to think “What’s Remy doing here?” as I was still focusing on my conversation with Joan and Martin, the lights came on and about 20 people jumped out of the dining room yelling, “Surprise!” Boy, was it ever! I simultaneously started crying, slugging Chuck, getting weak in the knees, and having a hot flash (I am 50, after all). Great deceit surrounded me: some of the people had talked to me earlier in the day, giving no hint of what lay in store for me. There was an awesome cupcake cake waiting for me, wonderfully tasteless cards, and a “mini pooper” made by our friend Bev, that had a built-in whoopee cushion (with remote!). It looked a lot like my Mini Max, actually, and could actually fit over a toilet seat, I think! There are few things in life that I love more than whoopee cushions, so this gift distracted me for some time. But Cheryl’s gift was the topper: she had a collage made of all of our trips around the world, and other pics of family, and friends – the chronicle of a friendship that has gone on for more than…well, a long time.

It was a wonderful evening, full of much laughter and warmth. I came away having learned a few things: a) I no longer mind being the center of attention, and b) I like surprise parties!

I think I like being 50!