Illustration by Alex Chen
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I’m all for living life to the fullest, but who ever heard of signing a release form to attend a birthday gathering?
I scan the waiver and instructions from the birthday venue: “I acknowledge the risks involved in falconry … injuries caused by birds such as scratch/puncture but not limited to. I forfeit all right to bring a lawsuit.” So if you are unlucky enough to get your eyes clawed out, c’est la vie. I make a note to bring along the required hat and sunglasses, because the birds “may land on your head.”
My friend Eileen, whom we are celebrating, believes hawks have been watching over her since her husband died and that one of them may actually be her beloved George, so how can I refuse? I sign, then text her: “Owl look forward to our falconry experience. It will be a hoot!”
I am a bit nervous about becoming a human flight deck for monstrous beady-eyed raptors. Then again, a photograph of me sporting the gauntlet, a bald eagle or great horned owl perched on my arm (or head), should get me at least a few likes on Facebook. The online reviews of the falconry operation are promising, participants describing the encounter as “otherworldly” and “a privilege.” According to one comic, the time just “flew” by. Sounds grand, but if I am honest, I prefer tamer festivities. A glass of bubbly, nibbles and good company are enough for me. Oh, and a big fat slice of Red Velvet cake wouldn’t hurt.
Around the time my girlfriends and I turned 60, birthday functions went from casual observances with cards and flowers to complicated “memory-making adventures,” the more novel the better. Maybe it’s because my friends and I are all in the home-stretch now.
For one birthday, a friend treated us to a workshop on the art of perfumery. Like chemists, we toiled over racks of miniature vials, whiffing and mixing. A drip of this, a drop of that. At the end, we emerged with pretty bottles of fragrance touted as unique reflections of our taste and personality. The next birthday in our friend group was spent roaming around a donkey sanctuary. The birthday girl was tickled pink. She especially enjoyed the gift shop which was bursting with donkey merch. They even had a sewing pattern for “donkey pants,” stylish equine leggings to ward off flies and insect stings.
Celebrating special occasions in original ways is fine, but there are limits. When a boyfriend romantically suggested that we could float over a valley in a hot air balloon, I weaselled out.
“You go, Hun,” I encouraged. “Just watch out for those power lines.”
While part of me can’t wait to see what the girls will come up with next, I find these outings intended to foster deeper connections through shared discovery a bit draining. They remind me of all those team-building exercises I abhorred when I was working in the public sector. I remember dancing the salsa with co-workers and falling backward from a platform, so that the team could catch me. Not to mention those wonderful log-carrying races or the time I was supposed to keep inflatable balls afloat with my fingertips.
Last December, with my friend Liz’s birthday fast approaching, I started feeling antsy. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy our recent adventures, it’s just that I yearned for simpler times when we did nothing but talk and eat. So I hatched a plot to recreate an old-style birthday by presenting it as a “special event.”
“Hey Liz,” I wrote, “I know you wanted to do something memorable on the big day. Could that be a detailed House Tour, as I’m dying to see all the changes you’ve made?” After her six-figure renovations, I was curious and I was sure our friends were, too.
“Dearie I love the idea!” she replied. At last, a relaxing get-together minus the crafts and barn animals. And no migraine-inducing odours from another perfume-making workshop.
The house tour was a hit. We were shown the different-coloured marble slabs in the various ensuite bathrooms and listened with mouths agape to the story about the one which was dropped and broke into smithereens. The beautiful sliding oak ladder in the library was a source of instant envy, though oddly I don’t recall seeing any books. The wallpapers were all gorgeous, especially the tropical grasscloth in the foyer. Before our catered lunch, an array of tantalizing charcuterie boards was placed on one of the raft-like ottomans her interior designer seems to favour. It was tight, but we all scooched around it, Champagne glasses in hand.
When my turn comes, I intend to invite my friends over for a nice home-cooked dinner. I know it’s nothing spectacular, but I think I can sell the idea.
I’ve been reading a lot of gourmet cookbooks, I’ll explain, so eating at my place will be a lot like dining at a Michelin-starred restaurant. To sweeten the pot, I’ll let it slip that we will be joined by a “mystery local celebrity.” Of course, the mystery guest will be most unfortunately detained and cancel on the day. But that minor disappointment should be more than offset by my thoughtful wine-pairings and heavenly tiramisu.
Joanne Tilden lives in Montreal.