LET THEM EAT CAKE

It seems to me that there comes a time in life where birthdaysshould no longer hold the meaning they once did; where “enough, already” might be sufficient as opposition to the redundancy and familiarity into which these celebrations invariably descend. After all, most of the “true” adults in my circle are in their 80s. Even my offspring are approaching their eligibility for Social Security.

And yet…

A friend, going back to our college days together, just celebrated his 88th birthday. An elaborate feast at The Mansion on Fisher Island … a guest list of long-time pals and neighbors, along with a gaggle of medical men and women who these days tend to penetrate the social circles of active, affluent, octogenarians.

My own 85th, celebrated at Lawry’s, The Prime Rib… one of the oldest eating establishments in Los Angeles… was an over-the-top family feast, replete with carolers and table-side beef carvings. Three daughters, three grandchildren, along with a collection of spouses. Not one medical degree. We would rely on 9-1-1 should the need present itself. Mercifully, it did not.

None of these fetes came close to the fantasy fulfillment my wife had for her 80th… a replication of her grandmother’s pre-World War II transatlantic crossing on the Queen Mary. It fell to me to fill the bill.

My spouse is nothing if not observant. We have been married since the late 20th century. Sometime during those three decades, it must have occurred to her that we had never been on a cruisetogether. 

Perhaps it was something I said about previous experiences I had endured on the high seas… or maybe it was my comparing such excursions to something akin to one of the more modest Hilton Hotel’s, now set afloat on its side: poor architecture, worse food, and a hum-drum clientele. 

All of that may have brought Sharon to believe that I just might be a wet blanket on such a trip, leading her to the conclusion that, like her grandmother and Garbo, she just wanted to take the trip alone. All that would be required of me, she announced, was to greet the ship on the other side of the Atlantic, holding long-stemmed roses. I could do that. But then, I thought: an 80-year-old lady… all on her lonesome on the high seas… for 7 days?

Years ago, when the last of Sharon’s girl-hood friends had succumbed to cancer, I admonished her to get younger friends. She did that. And so it was that I was able to treat her best pal to go along for the crossing on the Queen Mary 2… bound from New York to Southampton… which, not insignificantly, is a nearly three-hour cab ride from the hotel in which we would stay in downtown London. This old guy came through. Still jet-lagged from the previous day’s 6am arrival at London’s Heathrow Airport from Miami, I was up again at 5 am on day two to grab that 6am cab to Southampton in time for Sharon’s9am disembarkation.

The reports from the two women were fabulous. They had a great time and, more importantly, a good part of Sharon’s fantasy was realized… even if she had to wait to be 80 to get it.

There was more to the birthday plan: 10 days in London. Theatre, some shopping, visits to old haunts with some dear pals, including Sharon’s co-stars from her first two appearances in London’s West End: Bill Paterson (Stephen King’s Misery) and Tom Conti (Neil Simon’s Chapter II) along with their equally fabulous… and successful… spouses, Hildegard, and Kara.

We then teamed up for an after-theatre repast with Dame Maureen Lipman, fresh from her triumphal performance on stage in Rose, followed a few days later by dinner with a newer friend of Sharon’s, Anne Reid (Last Tango in Halifax). 

Sharon also did a sold out meet and greet fund-raiser for the Riverside Theatre in a suburb of London where the two hundred who were gathered there all rose to their feet to sing “Happy Birthday” to my beautifully aging star.

How can one top this? That is not necessarily rhetorical. Isn’t it safe to say that now… finally… we have come to that time where a birthday can simply be a twenty-dollar cake from Publix and a wish for many more to come?

Don’t bet on it. 90 looms.

 

Barney Rosenzweig