She was so cute even in her mid-forties. Childlike dimples, curly brown hair cut loosely around her face, shiny round eyes, and a helpful spirit always muttering a spritely song. She liked helping older people – women mostly with whom she bonds each in her own way. They gather together one surprise Monday afternoon to throw her a birthday party.
The power of the women in that room was strong. Fourteen women of various older ages focused their attention on their adopted child. She was resistant to their love – usually received one on one and not in this sort of threatening Birthday Intervention surprise party that made her balk. She wanted to run and hide; a further annoyance was that someone kept flashing pictures and she became as skittish as a trapped animal.
“Oh, no! They’re all here together! Who will I be today?” she thought fearfully. She always prepared herself the night before making lists about the chores she should remember for the following day’s work. Lady by lady, she worked her way through the week planning a day of preparation, a day of work.
She was stressed internally, shaken, unsure of her footing becoming angry. At the assurance of the eldest dowager, she calmed some, but not happily. This was just too much pressure. She was flying without a net. She needed a hit, she needed a drink, she needed to get out of there.
Desperate to be released she relaxes into a forced smile and the polite manners she has learned from years of practice. But she is not happy. Encouraged by a few of those closest to her, she finally relinquishes her resistance and plays their Birthday Game.
She would have preferred to be alone on this day, but these women were her livelihood, a lifeline she dare not threaten. She is resigned. A beautiful display of sandwiches, relishes, and fruit is offered. She chews the sandwiches quickly.
“Where’s the champagne?” she asks a little too desperately. Everyone laughs expectantly.
“We’re having champagne with the cake,” the head dowager proclaims.
“Well, where’s the cake?” she asks seriously joking.
At that moment everything happens at once. The buffet, the cake, the champagne… (The guest herself must open the bottles of champagne because none of the old gals can muster it)… that horrible song, and then a tray of a dozen pastel envelopes is presented to her. After gulping down several glasses of champagne and collecting hundreds of dollars in gifts, she settles down to a satisfying fantasy about the trips she’ll be able to take with her mechanic friend after they score later tonight.
When the party begins to ebb and the ladies take their leave, she lovingly kisses each wrinkled face and begins to stack the chairs and clean up the meeting hall. She is back to normal with the courage of the champagne and the dharma of helping the old dams she loves so well.
(First published 4/25/11)
