Birthday Blues
I should just stop celebrating my birthday. It's not that I'm vain about my age; it's that January birthdays just don't lend themselves to smooth celebration. On the day of my fortieth birthday party, for example, the pipes in our house froze, and that night, party attendance was sparse, what with the subzero temperatures. The hardy souls who did come shivered the whole time in the drafty house where the party was held-;and no one wanted a cold beer. This year, the day started out nice enough, with Kathy giving me a silly birthday card and several nice gifts. After lunch, we planned to take the Christmas tree to the nearby forest preserve to recycle it. We thought we'd take the dogs along and have a nice family walk in the snowy woods. Afterward, Kathy and I would go somewhere nice for dinner. I fastened the tree snugly to the roof rack with a couple of bungee cords, then drove into the alley so I could grab some things we needed from the garage.
That was my fatal error. The alley, a generally unassuming piece of pavement, has become, after various blizzards, a place of adventure: each time one drives into the alley, the ultimate outcome is anyone's guess. I managed to align my car with the deep ruts in the snow perfectly for the trip in, got what I needed from the garage, and jumped into the car to pick up my little family at the front of the house. I couldn't drive forward, however, as a big American car with two young men was ferociously spinning its wheels at the bend in the alley, blocking my way. Trying, therefore, to do my best impersonation of Patricia Charbonneau from Desert Hearts, I proceeded to back down the alley. Sure, she drove with a speed far outstripping to my own, but she didn't have a foot or more of snow to contend with. By the time I got to the last garage on the alley, though, I started feeling cocky-;right up till the moment the snow ruts threw me into a snow bank. I managed to pull forward and go back a few times, giving me the false hope that I would actually be able to dislodge myself. After 10 or 15 minutes of this, however, it became clear that wasn't going to happen, and after a few half-hearted attacks of the snow with a shovel, I disconsolately walked to get Kathy for help.
A mere three hours later-;after Kathy had hauled a 25-pound bag of salt from the store four blocks away and after I had reclined in the snow bank between the car and the warehouse wall next to it, scraping, with a garden spade ( all space would allow ) , at the crusty crest of snow holding our car aloft, and after other such heroics—the car whirred and spit its way out of the snow bank and out of the alley. "Okay," said Kath, through gritted teeth, "change your clothes: we're going to dinner." "I'm not exactly in the mood," I growled back. "I don't care: it's your birthday, and we're going to celebrate," she said firmly.
I had earlier called around to Mexican restaurants, looking for someplace with vegetarian options beyond the usual bean burrito or cheese enchilada. Most had a single veggie entree, but one place told me, "Almost anything on our menu can be made vegetarian." Encouraged by such acceptance of our noncarnivorousness, we headed there. It turned out to be a little storefront restaurant, but I didn't care-;as long as the food was good. But when we opened the door, we were nearly knocked over by a cloud of cigarette smoke. We got back in the car and headed off for one of our old standbys. Along the way, we passed another place, a semi-grungy sort of Mexican diner where we'd eaten before. Not exactly upscale dining, but they had really good burritos. And it was right there.
After a nice meal, sitting on our mismatched vinyl chairs, me swigging a tamarind soda, we hit the road again to take the tree to the recycling place. We drove along, chatting amiably when-;THUNK! It sounded like something hit our car. Kathy instinctively ducked: "What was that?" "A bungee cord?" I guessed. And before we knew what had happened, there was the tree in my rear-view mirror, lying in the road like a great big metaphor for better times that have fallen by the wayside.
Next year's birthday? I don't know whether I'll celebrate, but I can tell you this much: wherever we go, we'll be walking. I guess we'll just flip a coin to see which of us has to bungee cord the tree to her back.
Yvonne Zipter can be reached via e-mail at yxz@press.uchicago.edu .