July's transit pass came in the mail, so I guess next month is inevitable: that's when I turn 60.
For my 50th, I extracted a promise from le Duc that under no circumstances would anyone leap out from behind furniture, groomed and sparkling while I stood with a frozen smile, no makeup, in an old robe, the star of a show I had no desire to attend.
Ten Julys ago my GF Missi flew in, not a surprise (which she had proposed, why do people want to do this?). We spent the weekend drifting through an outdoor art show punctuated with restorative champagne cocktails. The last evening, Missi, the family and I settled into a bistro where the shy chef had prepared a homemade chocolate-strawberry cake, charmingly lopsided, with bits of crumb in the frosting. Perfect: no noise, fuss, or undesired attention.
But that was a decade ago. My GFs started conferring last December. By April panties were in a wad from one end of town to the other. Even if I demurred that le Duc and I might be somewhere distant on The Date, they would chirp "Fine! We'll just do it later!"
I had to act.
I lifted an idea from an acquaintance: to send off my 50's on the decade's last night, with eight women who'd seen me through, to thank them for their love and companionship. My garden table seats eight and magically it's just right because several of my dearest will be out of town during prime vacation season.
The chef is Omar, "Le Roi de Cous Cous", the menu sumptuously Moroccan, served on his mother's antique platters. Champagne and rosé, mint tea poured from high overhead.
Last time Omar cooked here, he graciously endured appreciative kisses (and not just of his cooking) from women guests... he knows what to expect.
This "0", I feel lucky to be here. During my 50's, at least one woman who would have joined us has died of natural causes, several others had brushes.
I won't really mind the attention because I can return their fond wishes with my own.