Thirty-Six.

In 2013 I turned twenty-nine-years-old, and my birthday felt long. I had a little get-together that I planned terribly, but my boss at the time held a company-wide birthday party for me. I remember coming down to the office cafeteria and almost everyone in the 150-person staff was standing there yelling "Surprise!" Every time I went out, my friends told the restaurant staff so they gave me a free slice of cake. I was sheepish about it, once even saying, "Enough!" when a vanilla ice cream appeared at a table with a candle. This lasted for a week after my birthday passed. 

My birthday this year felt the same way, thanks to my generous sister and friends. On the actual day of my birthday, Alistair was away on business, but he surprised me with a flower delivery. That night I had a video chat with Suni and Philippa, my closest friends who happen to live in other states. Suni and I stayed on extra long talking about how much we've changed in the past year, and most of it for the better. I realized that I am in an awkward in-between phase, like a caterpillar, if you like bad cliches.

That Saturday night Alistair and I had dinner with my sister at Boucherie in West Village.

"I wanted to feel like I was in Paris," I said to them both. We were seated outside, between to COVID-compliant plexiglass partitions. You could see the inside of the restaurant from our seat: glowing yellow vintage lights, a bar with good bottles on it meant to look like a traditional Parisian cafe. Too bad we couldn't eat in there, too bad it was freezing cold for a September night. My hands were like ice but I pretended to be warm. Vainly, I wanted everyone to see my new shirt, which I had bought as a birthday gift to myself.

We ordered escargot and steak frites and a bottle of red. We had enough to take home and somewhere in West Village a homeless man asked for money. My sister held out her bag of steak frites. "Do you like steak?" He thanked us and told us his story which now feels like the poster story for this moment in time: lost his job because of the virus, beat up and robbed in an alley, tried to gain entry to a shelter, etc. We suddenly realized that all three of us talking to him had managed to keep our jobs, and we were lucky.

Sunday night Alistair and I met neighborhood friends for a stoop hang. I used to sit on the stoop when there was nothing else to do, and now it's one of the few low-risk things you can do. We are reduced to picnics, outdoor dinners, and walks. No more karaoke, dance parties, opera, ballet, theater, readings and bookstore lingering. There will be even less when winter comes.

My friends surprised me by bringing me brownies and a candle and singing "Happy Birthday." It was such a kind gesture. We drank cocktails and wine and spoke briefly with their neighbors. I left over-served and giggling my way home with Alistair. It was such a fun night.

The celebrations slowed until Wednesday, when my sister stopped by with a belated gift. I poured her a glass of wine and a dry prosecco for me, and we talked on my stoop in the dark.