47
I wake up. Alone. The dog's back is pressed along the length of my legs, the contact generating warmth. But there is that brief moment — there always is — when I round my spine and expect to fit spoon-wise into a curve of chest or reach a leg forward with intent to drape it over a pair of thighs.
It is the lack of another body in my bed that propels me into full alertness as often as my alarm does. And February 13, my forty-seventh birthday, is just another in that endless string of days.
On this particular morning I think especially about what it was like to wake up with him, that once. It was early enough that the light was still wan and flat; it painted itself thinly along the walls as I slid out of bed and padded quietly to the kitchen to turn on the oven and take the breakfast strata out of the fridge so it could come to room temperature. As I tucked myself back beneath the covers — quickly, so as not to let heat escape — I pressed myself shamelessly to him, burrowing my face into the back of his neck and squeezing my eyes shut in an effort to memorize the scent of his skin. I breathed in notes of earthy leather and bright evergreen as I twisted one of his ash-coloured curls through my fingers and consumed his body in long, languid strokes: earlobe to shoulder; shoulder to elbow; jawline to waist; hip; buttock; thigh.
After an eternity of silence his presence has been substantial lately, lighting up my phone's screen with notifications regularly, and so it is to him, to that morning with him, that my mind drifts in this moment. Because today is a day for blowing out candles while making a wish that is meant to come true. But instead of finding the thousands of kilometres between us gone and hearing his voice as I caress his skin — "That feels incredible," he had said that day, to let me know he was awake and savouring my touch — it is my phone that breaks the silence.
It's my mom calling first thing to wish me a happy birthday.
She tells me what I will be fortunate to hear many times over on this day: That I am loved. That I am admired. That I shine with a rare light.
I choke on those sentiments. They sit clumped in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I know I should be grateful for them, and I am, but they also make me feel impatient. Even irrationally angry. “Stop!” is what I want to scream at my phone while I walk through the day unnoticed. (Though that would be painful in its own way.) How do you explain to people you love that their wishes aren't the ones you want? Or at least not in the absence of what it is every human being is wired to crave: to be chosen from the billions of possibilities that exist on this Earth and be celebrated on this day by someone who sees you, loves you, cherishes you in a way that no one else does. What are we when that basic need to bond in a deep and intimate way goes unfulfilled?
And god. Please. Spare me the inevitable chorus in response. I know I don't need a partner to be whole. I know I am blessed in so many ways. I know I live a full and vibrant life. I also know that relationships are extraordinarily hard and people can experience alienating loneliness while in them. I know. I know all of these things. I am a woman who is perfectly capable of living the rest of her life alone, unpartnered (or self-partnered, perhaps, as a young celebrity was recently mocked for calling herself — proof positive that despite our cheerleading about empowerment, society is brutishly intolerant of single adults). But that's not what I want. I want a life partner and all the joy and challenge that accompanies that choice. So I have done the deep dive right into the centre of who I am to confront my wounds, my insecurities, my patterns. I have done the "work," as many partnered people so self-righteously claim they have done, in order to attract my equal. I've opened my entire self bravely to love, risking abject heartbreak so that joy might have a chance. I've actively pursued love and I've actively pursued myself as well, in order be an authentic beacon to which that love can find itself drawn.
But instead I wake up on my forty-seventh birthday alone, as I have for seven birthdays preceding it, and pass the time in quiet darkness until my mother's call rings through. "How is this my life? What I have done so wrong that everyone else has done so right?" I want to ask. But I don't. Me and my alone-ness don't make sense, don't align with the way things are supposed to work out for attractive, intelligent, compelling women, and I make people uncomfortable when I confront them and my incongruous reality with the question Why? So I squeeze the ever-present disappointment out of my voice and prepare to spend this day focused on gratitude instead.
I hang up with my mom and pull on tights and a fleece for a short run. It’s when I’m laced into my running shoes and moving silently along the trails of Toronto’s Don Valley that I find the most peace with myself and contentment with my life. The deliberate practice of being conscious of and thankful for my life choices and moments of simple, everyday joy keeps me (mostly) mentally and emotionally stable. I know there are many things about me and the way I live others envy. This body, fit and sculpted from marathon training and CrossFit, is one frequently mentioned. And yet, I can’t help but wonder if they would trade their partners, regular sex, their families, their homes, or the financial luxury of a double income for any of it. I think about which of the good things in my life I would happily swap just for someone to take a turn walking the dog once in a while or clean the bathroom occasionally. Or how about this: making coffee and having it ready when I get in from a winter morning’s run. My kingdom for a simple cup of not-brewed-by-me coffee.
I normally take my birthday as a vacation day, but there’s a meeting I can’t miss at the office. So by 9:30 I’m headed to work for it. I’m wearing a billowy red floral-print chiffon blouse and dark blue skinny jeans with my knee-high black boots sheathing my legs. My mouth screams in my loudest shade of crimson lipstick. Academic settings are generally conservative and I’m anything but. The meeting goes predictably: As usual my penchant for calculated risk-taking is thwarted by others’ desire to take a more tempered approach, and I have to work exceptionally hard to keep my frustration and exasperation in check. As I’m headed to my post-meeting haircut I need to walk an extra block to the next subway station — there’s no one to rant to so I pound the sidewalk with my heels instead.
I arrive at my appointment and my stylist, who is also a close and trusted friend, lets me blow off steam from my meeting before we get to work on my hair. She also has surprises for me: a lovely gift bag of home-spa treats (I’ve been freelancing on top of my day job to pay off emergency orthopedic surgery my dog needed after an accidental injury at the park, and those close to me know how overtired and stretched I am, in need of a little pampering) and, a true pièce de résistance, an individual three-tiered vegan cake for the first birthday I’m celebrating plant-based. She spent days researching ingredients and technique and stayed up into the wee hours the night before piping individual hydrangea blossoms out of vegan buttercream for decoration.
It’s hard not to have a heart bursting with gratitude as I head towards the subway, my trimmed and curled hair dusting my shoulders as I carry my birthday treasure with me. I respond to messages during the cross-town trip home. I leave one in particular for last, as I don’t know how I feel about it. The timing of it, so late in the day, is telling — I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have arrived at all if the sender hadn’t seen my “47” post on social media. I know that shouldn’t deflate my mood, but it does. I keep my response uncharacteristically brief.
In that social media post I noted it was my birthday and I had given myself a manicure for the occasion — in black. “Licorice” is the artful name of the colour I chose, but there is no getting around that it is a high-gloss shade of obsidian. By contrast, the portrait accompanying the post is bleached, with high-key light and me in a white tank. The stark duality was a deliberate choice. It’s how I see myself. The daily abundance of beauty and joy punctuated by gutting loneliness and the struggle to eke out a solo life. The constant dance of light and dark.
I arrive home and eat a piece of my magnificent birthday cake while answering voicemails before taking the dog for a walk. I reapply my lipstick — “Red Stiletto,” also a fine complement to my black nails — and then head back out, this time for dinner with another dear friend. We eat and drink far too much for a weeknight, especially when we both have to be at the gym before dawn the next morning. But that just makes the indulgence a little more thrilling. “You are such a special person,” she says to me as we part ways. “I love you.”
I go out with the dog for a last quick walk before bed and think about how I’d have to be extraordinarily ungrateful and utterly mad to feel any sadness or lack after the day that just was.
And then I go to sleep on my forty-seventh birthday. Alone.
