The Best Birthday Present Ever

Last night I was given the best birthday present I have ever received. Ever.

So, let’s back up a little bit…shall we?

One of the reasons I’ve been so quiet blog-wise is because I’ve not only been busy with work and keeping up with my workouts, but I’ve been busy rekindling a wonderful friendship with an extraordinary woman in Chicago; extraordinary is an understatement, but she tends to blush if I say too much, so I’ll leave it at that. Anyhow, she, herself, is a busy woman—busier than me with a full-time job and two rug-rats to keep up with—so our opportunities to talk on the phone and not just via email and IM are limited, to say the least. Such is life.

Anyway, last night I was treated to a phone conversation.

As I’ve stated here, and in my communication with her, I’ve been perplexed as to what to do for my 30^th birthday. The timing of it just seems really shitty, frankly…even where she is concerned because I’m going out there toward the end of July for a weekend-visit and to catch the Melissa Etheridge concert. Basically, between that, work, break-ups and newborns, my prospects are starting to look bleak all around…especially since I’m not going to have a ton of money to just take off for some tropical island inhabited by hot and horny Amazons. (Wouldn’t that be nice, though?)

So, what in the world am I going to do to make the big 30 special…and not just another fucking holiday spent by myself? NO bloody clue—none.

Toward the end of our conversation, she asked me what I was going to do. My answer was the same: I don’t know. And then, AND THEN, it came: the best birthday present ever. It was as if the heavens opened—the swirling storm clouds parted and out of the sunlight she descended like my angel.

Can you guess? Can you guess?

ChicagoLady: “I’ve been saying I want to come out there; why don’t I come out there?”

Trace: “What? Are you serious?”

ChicagoLady: “Yea. Why not?" (said with commanding ease)

I promptly melted into a pathetic puddle of true, unadulterated amazement. It was literally difficult for me to comprehend the words coming out of her mouth because there as no way this could be happening to me. Not to me! No one comes to see *me*—I can’t even get my best-friend out here more than once a year and she lives in fuckin’ Oak Park. Sorry, babe, but it’s true.

I’m the one who has to go see people—that’s how my life works, so this couldn’t be true…could it?

ChicagoLady: “Yea. Why not?”

Yea. Why not? Hmmm….

The truth is: there is NO reason…other than I’m too used to leftovers and table scraps, so I don’t demand more and just fold into myself when I’m feeling neglected. I didn’t demand more from my family, don’t do it of my friends, and rarely have I done it with lovers…at least until I just couldn’t take getting the short end of the stick anymore, but there again, it didn’t get me anywhere for long. Old habits die hard, indeed.

But I didn’t have to demand this; I didn’t even have to ask, and it had not even crossed my mind. Going back to Chicago had crossed my mind, but never this. This was just truly stunning to me—flabbergasted hardly does my reaction justice. Afterward, I felt like I’d taken a shot of a painkiller or something; I literally could no longer feel my aching muscles or the blister on my hand from my workout—I was *that* stunned.

And I’m not the kind of person who is stunned or shocked by much; I’ve seen a lot in 30 years.

A woman at work asked me today why I was so stunned after I told her. I explained that I was pretty sure that was the single nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. She looked at me like I was insane—she didn’t believe me. She asked me why that was, and I told her the truth: “shitty life,” I said in the same way ChicagoLady said “Yea. Why not?” Commanding ease.

My work friend shook her head. “No,” she said. She still did not believe me. I just nodded, told her to trust me, and left it at that.

You see, that’s why I don’t talk about my past to most everyone: people don’t believe me; they might not say it, but I’ve seen the disbelief in people’s eyes when I say things as generic as “I don’t have a family.” People just don’t get it.

And, I get that—I do. Look at me: I’m smart; I’m kind; I’m good at what I do; I’m pretty; I’m passionate; I’m an open an unapologetic lesbian; people generally like me; I make a good wage; I’ve been to college: I am privileged.

I don’t deny that and never will—I am privileged…but everyone, in their own way, has to fight to be free. I am almost all of those things that I’ve listed above because I have had to fight to be them; I own them—they are mine…not just handed to me. And that’s where my sense of pride comes from: everything I have is mine. No one can lay claim to it but me, and that is something to be proud of, in my opinion.

But shit still happens…and sometimes it happens a lot…and usually it leaves a scar. Mine just happen to be invisible; even people who know the whole story forget and take for granted my resilience. Sure, I’m a survivor, but no one wants to be a survivor for their whole lives. It eventually gets really old.

And that’s why having a friend come all the way from Chicago to me is the best gift of my entire life: because I didn’t have to demand attention; I didn’t have to ask or fight for anything; I didn’t even have to explain all the sordid and traumatic details of my past or reveal my invisible scars, which I’d rather gouge my eye out than do any more. I didn’t have to do anything other than say, “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Yea. Why not?

Exactly.