“Let’s not get carried away, but I do need to do something to make up for the calories I’m not burning by having sex,” I joke.
“Won’t you miss your job? I thought you loved it,” Amanda says.
“I might not be a master of relationships, but I think I’m a champion of marketing. I enjoy my job, do it well, and they think highly of me there, but I’d like to explore non-law-firm environments before I’m pigeon-holed. I think of it as a new direction for a new decade.” I scoop up a handful of M&M’s. “It would also be nice not to come face-to-face with my mistakes on a regular basis.”
“Mistakes being Philip?” Cheryl asks.
I nod. “He’s perfectly nice to me, but each time I see him, it’s a painful reminder of how stupid I was to think for one second he was somehow better for me than Doug. He didn’t even watch television. Can you imagine me getting serious with a guy whose time on the boob tube is limited to CNN?” I roll my eyes at the absurdity.
“Speaking of boobs, er, in a roundabout way…you don’t plan on giving up men forever, do you? It gets old after about a decade,” Amanda says with a knowing look.
I wave her away. “Of course not. I like sex way too much to live like a nun. But I don’t trust myself to date right now.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing about Ben,” Cheryl says. “A little alone time will do you good.”
I smile at Cheryl gratefully. “I’m relieved you think so. Part of me agrees. I’m glad I’m not letting fear drive me, and I have faith everything will work out in time. But threatening my faith is the stubborn fear that I totally blew it and will regret my decision when years go by and I’m old and alone.” I blink to prevent the onset of tears. “What if Ben is the last decent guy who will ever like me, and I pushed him away? He’s nice, handsome, age-appropriate. Maybe I should have gone with it, even though I mostly liked him as a friend. Better than waiting until I’m fifty and settling for a sixty-five-year-old widower with a saggy ass and a prescription for Cialis.”
Cheryl wraps her arm around my shoulders. “You’re being silly, Magpie. The right guy will find you if you don’t find him first. I promise.”
Amanda tilts her head to the side. “The way you felt about Ben…I thought you described your relationship with Doug the same way.” Biting her lip, she clarifies, “That it was more of a friendship.”
Shaking my head, I say, “No. I never thought of Doug as just a friend. My romantic feelings for him were never in question. It was more of the excitement factor.” I look cautiously over at Cheryl, afraid of part two of her wrath. “Life with Doug was fairly predictable, and I guess I wasn’t sure if we had what it took for the long haul. As if the novelty of a covert office romance would have more staying power.” Disgusted with myself, I drop my gaze to my wood floor and try to drown out Lindsay’s upbeat voice in my head telling me how excited Doug is to start a family. “I still can’t believe he downplayed his desire to have kids for so long.”
“I’m surprised too,” Cheryl says. “You guys used to talk about the places you would visit. Doug would talk about eating haggis in Scotland and blood soup in Vietnam, and riding the Tower of Terror rollercoaster in Australia, but he never mentioned kids. I assumed he was like you, with an ‘if it happens, it happens’ attitude toward children.”
My night to celebrate all things single has taken a dangerously depressing turn and in a desperate attempt to change the subject, I make a statement I doubt will come to fruition, but should provide the desired shock value. “Once I master rock climbing, maybe I’ll train for a triathlon.”
June
From the visitor’s chair in my office, Melanie frowns. “I can’t believe you’re leaving us.”
“I’m leaving the firm, yes. But I’m not leaving you.” In a high-pitched cheerleader voice, I say, “Maggie and Melanie, friends foreva.”
“Promise?”
I extend my hand across my desk and jiggle my pinky at her. “Pinky swear. And besides, I’ll be here for two more weeks.” I’m still in a semi-state of denial over quitting my job, but even though I’m going to miss having one of my closest friends in an office down the hall from me for impromptu lunches, emergency happy hour drinks, and all-too-often needed distractions, I know I’ve made the right decision from both a personal and professional standpoint.
“Are you going to meet the cast of the Veep? It’s one of my favorite shows and the reason I pay for HBO. Please get me an intro to Tony Hale. I’ve loved him since Arrested Development.”
Chuckling, I say, “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not sure how often HBO’s Manager of Advertising & Promotion meets the actors of their Original Programming.” As much as I’m playing it down, I’m every bit as psyched to be working for HBO’s marketing department as if I was hired to star in Girls. I can’t think of a cooler way to incorporate my honed career skills with my devotion to the medium of television.
Melanie scrunches her forehead contemplatively. “True. Maybe I can be your plus one at the Christmas party.”
“I wish I could say there would be others vying for the invitation, but—” Before I can finish, I am interrupted by a light tapping on my open door.
“Hi, Philip. Come on in,” I say with as much nonchalance as I can fake. It’s not like I’m surprised by his appearance, but I’m glad we’re doing it on my turf. I’d been waiting to be beckoned into his office since I left notice a few hours earlier.
Melanie rises from her chair. “I was just leaving. Hours to bill and all.” As Philip replaces her in my guest chair and faces me, she mouths, “Good luck” before walking out of my office and closing the door behind her.
My eyes meet Philip’s across the desk, and I try not to fidget.
Crossing one leg over the other, he says, “I hear you’re leaving us.”
“Yes. It’s a great opportunity.”
Philip nods. “HBO’s gain is our loss.”
Fighting the urge to apologize for quitting, I say, “Thank you.”
Not meeting my eyes, he says, “A little out of your comfort zone though, no?”
I silently count to five in my head. I am practiced at answering this question after three rounds of interviews. “It’s not a law firm, no. But my experience with media planning and developing promotions will transfer to the entertainment arena. And I was in need of a new challenge, and HBO delivered.”
“I’ve no doubt you will deliver as well.”
Ever original, I say, “Thank you” again.
Philip swipes a finger across his eyebrow and closes his eyes for a pause. When he opens them, he studies me for a moment before saying, “I have to ask.”
“Ask what?” My heart beats rapidly as if anticipating an awkward moment. As if every moment between Philip and me hasn’t been uncomfortable since we stopped dating.
He leans forward in the chair. “You’re not leaving because of me, are you? Because of what happened with us?”
I bite my lip, trying not to look at his wedding band. Of course, since I’m consciously attempting to avoid darting my eyes towards his left hand, I make contact at least twice before opening my mouth. “Honestly, it did play into my initial decision to switch jobs, but the more I thought about it, the more excited I became at the prospect of spreading my wings outside of the legal arena. And once my headhunter told me about the opening at HBO, and I met with the team, I was hooked. I’ll be managing the development and execution of consumer advertising and promotion plans for all of their Original Programming. I’m already extremely passionate about the work, and I haven’t even started yet.”
Philip grins. “You’re beaming. You can’t fake that.”
“I’m excited, Philip. I think it’s a good move for me.” I hesitate before adding, “Regardless of what precipitated the decision.”
“I hear you. But if it’s about money, I’ve alre
ady been given authorization to counter their offer. I…we really don’t want to lose you.”
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Wow.” When I met with Neil Black earlier in the morning to leave notice, he didn’t do a happy dance around his office, but he didn’t seem particularly fazed by my resignation either. In my experience, senior partners in law firms, especially those on the management committee, regard all non-legal personnel as dispensable. “I’m shocked and flattered.”
“Meaning you’ll consider it?”
His brown eyes are wide and hopeful, and if I didn’t know better, I’d question whether he genuinely valued my marketing skills or if it was my other skills he hoped to keep close. “Truthfully, the salary increase is not life-changing, especially since I’m lacking some relevant experience.” Giving him a wry smile, I confess, “I sort of charmed them into giving me a shot.”
Philip looks at me fondly. “I wish I could have observed you in action.”
“That makes one of us. I was nervous enough without an audience.”
“So, the answer is…”
“Thank you so much. But, no. I’m sorry.” I knew an apology would slip out at some point in the conversation.
Philip stands up. “Well, in case you change your mind, the offer is good until your last day.” Winking, he adds, “And probably even longer.”
“Thanks, Philip.” I flash him a genuine smile, grateful for his counter-offer and his kindness under the circumstances.
When he’s gone, I take a deep breath and remove a fresh legal pad from my left desk drawer. I’m not sure if my successor will start or even be hired before my last day, and I want to create a cheat sheet to make her transition as smooth as possible. I have pen in hand, ready to jot down my first set of notes when my phone rings. Answering it, I say, “Maggie Piper.”
“Time’s up, Maggie Piper. The moment to plan your birthday bash has arrived,” Amanda says.
My lips part to protest, but I’m all out of excuses. I will turn forty in a month, and there is nothing short of death to prevent it. Giving in, I say, “Fine. Let’s talk.”
July
My eyes open the moment my alarm goes off. Unmoving, I stare at the ceiling and blink a few times until it sets in. I’m forty.
I expect to be overwhelmed with dread in the pit of my belly, but I mostly feel resigned. I have been praying to find a loophole to ending my thirties short of death for well over a year, but since I’ve been talking about turning forty for so long, being forty is kind of anticlimactic.
I commence my morning ritual as usual, taking a few sips of water from the glass on my night table before stepping out of bed and heading to the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth. After soothing my dry eyes with a drop of Visine in each, I scrutinize my reflection and check for signs I’ve aged overnight. The face staring back at me in the mirror is the same face I wore the night before, only the slightest of lines at the corners of my eyes. No brown spots, no deep wrinkles, no parentheses around my mouth. Lifting my chin, I touch the skin of my neck with my fingertips—just as taut as it was yesterday. I breathe a sigh of relief and roll my eyes at my mirror image for foolishly worrying I would morph into a matronly woman on the eve of my fortieth birthday.
Of course, this doesn’t stop me from stripping off my pajamas and searching for evidence of sudden sagginess in my body. My breasts are no less perky than they were the last time I checked them out. Unfortunately, they are no bigger either. Pinching the small amount of flesh directly under my belly button confirms the absence of six-pack abs or a completely flat stomach I would be comfortable flaunting in a string bikini. Nevertheless, standing sideways in front of my mirror evaluating my profile, I am pleased to note I can still rock a modest two-piece bathing suit better than many women in their twenties and thirties, despite my foray into my forties. Those who say bikinis are for women thirty-nine and under can kiss my ass.
Speaking of my ass, I drop my panties down to my ankles and step out of them, prepared to stand on my toilet bowl to take a closer look at it. I have one foot on the bowl and the other mid-step when I change my mind. Mother Nature has been kind to me so far this morning. I don’t want to push my luck.
The tune of Maroon Five’s “Pay Phone” blasts from my cell, convincing me I made the wise choice to forego climbing on my toilet bowl to do a thorough examination of my derrière. The sudden sound in my otherwise silent apartment might have caused me to careen headfirst onto my cold porcelain floor. Still naked, I run back to my bedroom and retrieve my phone. I smile when I see “Mom” on the display. “Hi, Mom.”
“Happy birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday dear Maggie, Happy Birthday to you.”
My eyes well up at the sound of her off-key but cheerful voice. “Thanks, Mom.”
“How’s my baby today?” There is a catch in her voice as if she’s not certain who she’s talking to—her baby or a woman who has maturely accepted it’s time to grow up.
“I’m forty,” I say, torn between which role to assume. I sit on the edge of my bed, my lower lip quivering dangerously.
My mom laughs. “I wish I was calling to tell you there was a mistake on your birth certificate, and you’re actually turning thirty-nine and not forty, but then you’d have to go through another twelve months of awaiting the inevitable. The day of reckoning is upon us. Tell me the truth: isn’t it a bit of a relief?”
“It is. When I woke up this morning, being forty years old didn’t hit me too hard since I had been dreading the day for so long.”
“Exactly. And would you really want to go through the last year again?”
“No.” I think back on the last twelve months of my life and know I wouldn’t want to experience it a second time unless it included a do-over equipped with my new-found wisdom.
“And now you can show everyone how young, vivacious, and beautiful forty can be,” my mom says proudly.
Choking back tears, I say, “Thank you. You always know what to say.”
“I speak the truth. Are you excited for tonight?”
“Totally.” When Amanda finally cornered me into planning my birthday party, I told her my ideal celebration consisted of dinner with my family and closest friends. “How are you getting into the city?”
“Cheryl and Jim are driving me, Helen, and the kids. Cady is already calling dibs on sitting next to Aunt Maggie.”
Picturing my “mini-me”—as my friends have taken to calling Cady—I say, “I can always count on my favorite niece to make me feel special.”
In a stern voice, my mom says, “You are special. And everyone coming to dinner loves you.”
“Which is exactly why I want to spend my birthday with them.” I glance at the time on my television set. “Crap, I need to jump in the shower. I haven’t been at this job long enough to be late.” And since there’s no way I’ll accomplish anything at work before I’ve read all of my “happy birthday” posts on Facebook, I need to get going if I have any intention of being at all productive.
“I’ll let you go. Have a great day and I’ll see you later.”
“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you too. To the moon and back.”
I hang up the phone, basking in her unconditional love. When I read the birthday texts sent by Cheryl, Melanie, Jodie, and Amanda while I was on the phone, a sentiment I didn’t predict experiencing on my fortieth birthday washes over me—happiness.
* * *
Clink. Clink. “May I have your attention, please?”
I turn my focus away from Jodie and direct it toward the end of our round table, where my mother is standing with a glass of champagne in her hand. I’m grateful for her timing, as Jodie was about to rehash to my Aunt Helen how I celebrated my birthday last year by giving pedestrians in Union Square a peek at my undies. Jodie thinks these stories are endearing, as she should after over
twenty years of friendship, but I’m afraid Aunt Helen will cite my klutziness as another strike against me finding a husband.
“I want to make a little toast,” my mom says. She is wearing a new dress in a shade of purple, which brings out the blue of her eyes, and her cheeks are flushed with happiness. Or maybe it’s the champagne. Whatever the cause, she is beautiful.
The clatter at the table at Otto, Mario Batali’s Italian restaurant in the West Village, slowly ebbs until my mom has everyone’s rapt attention. I’m fairly certain all of the neighboring tables are equally beguiled by the raucous we are causing. It’s a Wednesday night, but Otto is notoriously booked to capacity almost every day of the week, and we have to project our voices to hear each other above the din of other diners.
“Forty years ago tonight, I was in agony,” she begins. “My contractions were coming every two minutes, and I was begging for an epidural.”
At this, my mom puts her hand to her stomach and distorts her face in mock pain. Everyone chuckles while I bow my head in embarrassment.
My mom continues, “But at 10:18, I was blessed with the most precious gift of my life—my Maggie. Of course, she was covered with white greasy vernix and resembled a plucked chicken, but she was my plucked chicken, and I loved her at first sight. And I have loved her every day since.” She shakes her head at me. “Even when she thought she was doing a good deed and did a load of laundry with Clorox bleach instead of detergent.”
“I remember that day,” Aunt Helen shrieks.
“What’s Clawax bleach?” Cady asks.
Covering my eyes, I say, “I didn’t realize this was a roast. I might need something stronger than champagne.”
Glancing knowingly at Amanda, Jodie whispers, “We’ll get you something stronger later. Don’t you worry, Magpie.”
“I will keep this brief because I don’t want our food to get cold.” My mom’s eyes sweep the table, which already holds the various dishes we ordered for our first course. “Thankfully, cheese plates and assorted salads are generally eaten at room temperature. We’re all here to wish my baby a happy birthday, and I know she is thrilled to have you celebrate with her, as am I.” Locking eyes with me, she says, “Maggie, you might be forty, but you’ll always be my little girl. I love you and I’m so proud of the woman you’ve become and continue to become with every passing year.” She raises her glass. “Cheers. To Maggie. To another forty plus years of good health, happiness, and love.”
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