THE BEST VIEW: THE Birthday

by Norma Best Boucher

1987 – According to Shirley MacLaine, with crystals at each corner of my shower and with the fingertips of both of my hands touching in pyramidic fashion, if I chant three times, I will find an inner peace. Here goes:

“My fortieth birthday will not be a traumatic experience.”

“My fortieth birthday will not be a traumatic experience.”

“My fortieth birthday will not be a traumatic experience.”

Nothing personal, Shirl, but I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t put all of my eggs into one soap dish.

In reflection I remember that whenever my friends lamented, “I hit the big Four-0 today,” I had expressed sympathy and encouragement but never any real understanding.

After all, I had never prayed for perpetual youth, only to look like perpetual youth. Was my dream going to shatter just as everyone else’s had?

I decided to take the challenge, so on my 39th birthday I began to take stock.

I had begun to notice a slight giggle when I walked past the bathroom scales. When I actually got up enough nerve to weight myself, I heard down right hysterical laughter. Scratch one.

I had noticed crow’s feet near the corner of my eyes, but I decided years ago that if I didn’t smile, these lines wouldn’t show. Upon closer inspection I noticed that these few crow’s feet now map out a coast to coast round trip voyage across the United States. This includes alternate routes using federal, state, and local highways. Scratch two.

I had begun innocently enough pulling out my gray hairs as they appeared. On this day, using my multi-lighted cosmetic mirror, I had a decision to make: remain gray or continue pulling out the gray hair and go bald. Scratch three.

That was the last straw or should I say the last gray hair. This was no longer a challenge – this was WAR.

I could either lie down and be 40, or I could fight and be 39 one more time.

There was no stopping me. I became a driven woman. I lost 13 pounds. I bought a new wardrobe. I permed my hair. I got contact lenses. I had color analysis, and I pierced my ears.

In the grocery store I saw two people who had been my neighbors for nine years. Neither one of them recognized me. One woman even suggested that I change my name.

“Why not?” she said. “You’ve changed everything else.”

I gave that idea considerable thought but decided to save that decision and possible cosmetic surgery for birthday Five-0.

I became desperate. I began scratching out my birth date on calendars. I jogged. I did aerobics. I took vitamins. Nothing worked.

Time ravaged on, and so did I.

Inevitably, I have accepted the fact that the big Four-0 will arrive no matter what I do.

This is mind over body or whatever is left of it.

In these last days I realize that my major battle will be on the morning of my birthday.

My strategy is set. This will be my last hurrah. Here goes:

I will chant in my crystalized shower and meditate facing my “I’d rather be 40 than pregnant” poster taped to the inside of the bathroom door.

When no one is looking, I’ll remove half of the light bulbs from my cosmetic mirror, and I’ll apply my makeup before I put in my contact lenses.

One major question remains, Shirley, “What if even all of this should fail?”

Just in case, I have one more alternate plan.

With shoulders back and head held high, I’ll toss back my hair and say, “Dye it.”