My birthday is my favorite holiday of the year. Since before I can remember my b-day celebrations have been weeklong extravaganzas filled with some of my favorites (give or take one or two items on the list depending on my circumstances that year): pampering, expensive meals, shopping, fireworks, luxury hotels, friends, family, and most importantly, dancing. Lots and lots of dancing. If I could compare it to something I'd say that Sofia Coppola's "Marie Antoinette" is an accurate parallel. Admittedly, this is an exaggeration, but it conveys the general gist of how I feel about my birthday, and it does always involve friends, family, lots of delicious foods and dancing.
I was born July 3rd 1978, bookended between the end of some magnificent revolutions and the rise of capitalism, cocaine, and consumerism. My holiday typically begins on the 1st of July, Canada Day, and starts with a bang watching the fireworks. Then there is dinner, dancing, and debauchery that continues until another round of fireworks on the 4th (America Day). The grand finale is a chill come down on the 5th that includes maybe a lounge by a pool or sunbathing on a beach.
This year, my 43rd year of life, was no different – and completely different – at the same time. I had gifted my mom a two-night spa escape in a cute little boutique hotel in Toronto for Christmas 2019. She reserved her weekend for March of 2020, unfortunately right around the first Covid quarantine. She cancelled and subsequently fell ill and although there were lifts in quarantines here and there, she was always too sick to travel by herself. She decided to regift the weekend to me and added on a third night at her expense. After the year I've had, I was grateful to accept and was very much looking forward to the escape. I excitedly called to schedule my spa services and restaurant reservation. The hostess at George, the restaurant, asked, "For two?" and although I have friends in Toronto that I was looking forward to seeing, I wanted to dine alone this year. I always had a lot of fortune doing things on my own and often met cool, strange, and unusual people which would often lead to similarly cool, strange and unusual experiences. Naively, or perhaps optimistically, I thought this would happen again this year, not considering the social distancing guidelines.
The festivities began on the 30th of June with a Dairy Queen ice cream cake, a tradition from childhood. Then, on the 1st of July I celebrated with my niece and my mom with a subdued fanfare: the fireworks were cancelled this year because of both the provincial ban of large public celebrations and the protest against Canada Day in solidarity with the Native Canadians who were protesting due to recently uncovered acts of Aboriginal genocide in our country. I left for Toronto on the 2nd, and on my way into the city I felt a mounting sense of anxiety. I hadn't felt such a stressor in a while, but it was undoubtedly a direct side effect of the pandemic. This was my first time getting away to a city in about two years and, given the level of fear that's propagated across the world, I was nervous about what I would find. I imagined myself going out for a delicious diner and hitting up a local club and meeting a handsome stranger for a fun night of flirting...maybe more...forgetting about the current rules and regulations around social distancing. I felt a wave of sadness with the realization on the drive in that I wasn't going to be dancing in a club this year, but I pressed on.
Feeling the lingering effects of both this anxiety and somberness, I arrived at the hotel and anxiously checked in. The concierge asking about my partner joining, to which I responded that I was alone. She replied in a surprised tone, "Really? Alone? Oh." and looked away embarrassed. For whom I’m not exactly sure. I parked my car and settled in the room for a first night of room service and movies followed by a long soak in the 6-foot-long bath. I felt happy to be away and looking forward to the next day, the official day of my birth.
July 3rd, I woke up early, stretched, did some yoga, had breakfast in bed, took another long soak in the giant bath and headed to the basement for my spa day. Still feeling the sting of anxiety from the state of the world, I was nevertheless able to relax and enjoy my services. I had reservations at the hotel restaurant and decided to go shopping for a new dress. I found a beautiful, sophisticated, and sexy Prussian blue silk number by Veronica Beard for next to nothing due to the storewide sale (one of the few perks of a worldwide pandemic). I found a cute pair of strappy baby blues with a chunky animal print heal to match, the first pair of shoes that I’d bought in over two years. The salesman asked me what I was celebrating, and I told him that it was my birthday and had a great diner planned. He asked how many were going to join to festivities, which was a normal question, but I felt a twinge of embarrassment at being alone and celebrating alone, a sense that had perhaps been building ever since I made my dinner reservation for one.
Feeling odd about being alone is something I've felt more here in my Canadian hometown than anywhere else I've lived. It’s a feeling I grew up with as a female in my generation and one I seemed to be revisiting this weekend. I sputtered as I thought about how to respond, but the salesman ended up answering for me, saying with a giggle and a wink "As many as the rules will allow, I bet!" I quickly chirped yes, squinting my eyes into that Covid smile, hiding my frown under my mask for lying about my plans.
I returned to the hotel with just enough time to change into my beautiful outfit, put on my makeup, and head down to the restaurant in time for my reservation. I walked through the front door to be greeted by the hostess who took my name "Yes, Mrs. Lavoie," she cooed, looking behind me confused, "for two?" Oh, my fucking fuck. For the love of Christ. At this point I had reached my tolerance. Did I not make clear on the phone that I would be dining alone? Does no one in Toronto EVER go out in public alone??? Only in Canada do I travel to a big mother fucking city by myself and am treated with pity for being alone. In her defense, a family entered the restaurant behind me whose last name was also Lavoie with a reservation at the same time (an anomaly just about anywhere but especially in English Toronto). She was understandably confused. The hostess led me to my table, apologizing like a true Canadian for the length of the long walk that took us through the restaurant, across the hotel lobby, through the hotel lounge and into the courtyard, that was originally reserved for members of the private club pre-Covid but transformed into the restaurant’s "outdoor" dining area post-Covid. Ironically her overly apologetic address made me feel even more embarrassed about being alone. She guided me to a table that was quite literally center stage. The only two-seater in the middle of the courtyard. Given the number of times I was confronted about being alone I felt awkward and asked if I could sit in the more comfortable less conspicuous table against the wall. In retrospect I should have stuck with the table God gave me and sat in my discomfort.
Title: Suicide Twins
I relaxed a bit with a complimentary glass of champagne that promptly arrived at my table. “Hey, now this is what I’m talking about. Happy Birthday to me.,” I whispered to myself, thinking that the bubbly was a perk for my birthday (I soon realized, though, somewhat crushingly, that every table received free flutes). My waiter was a tall, middle aged ginger with an indulgent belly and a nice sense of humor. He guided me through the options on the menu, and I decided to go with the surprise 5 course meal. I made the right choice: each course was increasingly delicious.
The meal would have been perfect, save for a couple that was seated not long after me that kept turning to look at me sometimes smiling and sometimes with concern such that I thought they might have thought they knew me. I tried to ignore them, feeling in the spotlight again, against my attempts to remain incognito and enjoyed the remainder of my meal. I chatted with my waiter, all the while admiring the other waiter I would have had had I stayed center stage (my first indication that I should have stayed at my original table). He was a tall handsome younger man with a beautiful body. His tall muscly frame conveyed his Adonis-like beauty through his snug white button-down shirt and fitted black pant that accentuated a butt you could bounce a quarter off of. Although I couldn't see his entire face due to the Covid mask, his giant baby blue eyes, full head of light brown locks, and chiselled jaw led me to believe the rest of his face would not disappoint.
After my meal, I decided to head downtown and see if I could find a place to have a cocktail, maybe listen to some music, and the good Lord willing meet someone new. As I stood downloading the Uber app outside the hotel, the couple from inside that seemed so enamoured with me came outside to have a cigarette. They started chatting with me and shared hat they were tempted to invite me to their table after seeing me sitting all alone. They were being kind, but I felt both grateful and a bit insulted at the same time, particularly given all of the reminders I had endured this single evening about going out alone. The truth, though, is that I would have loved to have been invited to their table but, probably due to a combination of Canadian “politeness” and Covid by-laws they refrained. Ironically, had I stayed at the original table that was assigned to me, I would have been in talking distance to them and they might have asked me to join them, but it was too late.
We chatted while I waited for my Uber, and they asked me where I was from. It was then that I lied for the second time…kind of. I told them that I was Canadian but had been living in NYC for almost 7 years. I neglected to mention that I had moved back to Canada almost 4 years ago and am currently living in my mom’s basement with a paused career, minimal social life, and non-existent love life. Talk about being sucker punched in the face all weekend, and my birthday weekend at that. I’ve never been so tempted to start smoking again since I quit 5 years ago. To top off the evening I took 4 different taxis to 4 different areas in the city, foolishly thinking it would be easy for me to get in anywhere because I looked fabulous and was alone. Not the case: all the clubs required reservations and were booked solid. Adding insult to injury, being alone was, for the first time, to my detriment because with only one person at a table the house would take in less revenue. I did have one handsome doorman suggest I come back for brunch as his club was the highest in the city and offered spectacular views, but by that point I was too defrocked to consider brunch with any amount of zeal. Those who know me would realize how low I felt at this point, as I used to plan monthly outings with groups of friends all over NYC and San Francisco, especially for brunch.
My sadness was all-encompassing. Feeling deflated with sore, blistered feet I took my last Uber back to the hotel. I spent the next day walking my depression around the city. Most tourist attractions were still closed. Everything that was open had limited accessibility. It was surreal in every way. The spa and weekend away from my usual responsibilities was nice but the bust of my birthday night and extreme admonition of my singleness was ridiculously absurd. I could have been in a Monty Python film. I canceled my visit with friends honestly explaining my depression and they understood, inviting me to visit anytime, which I appreciated and drove home on the 5th, attempting to digest all of it and feeling grateful to be seeing my family and poochie again soon.
Five hours later I pulled into my driveway. My time in the car gave me time to mull things over and allowed me to come to the realization that there were two themes that dominated my normally triumphant birthday events. The first: being alone. Being alone has been an ongoing narrative in my life, as I’ve chosen to float in and out of relationships over the years and decided not to marry or have children. It’s a choice that I made years ago and thought I had accepted and healed from the guilt and shame of not finding “the one” or building a family. I would love to meet a special person to spend life with, now that I’m entering the second half of my life I think it’s something that I’ve thought of more earnestly than before. I am also aware, though, of the possibility that this special someone might never arrive.
My confidence in these life choices wavered after I moved back to my hometown, as buried fragments of shame from childhood about being a woman were unearthed. My hometown is a backward, honky-tonk kind of place where men still believe that being macho is the mark of a real man and women are not whole unless they have a man...any man. Being a single woman in this town at my age means you’re either crazy or a slut, neither very flattering. What a woman did with her life, her career, her soul is completely irrelevant if it isn’t accepted by a man. Regardless, I knew this when I moved back several years ago and was ready to accept the possibility that should I choose to stay here I may never find another partner again.
I’ve found, since my return, Canada overall is not as progressive as it once was. I’m not sure what happened since I moved away, but from that point it seems like I grew and evolved but my country didn’t. Maybe it’s just my personal experience, I haven’t exactly put out positive vibes because of my irreverence. Maybe I was slapped in the face on my birthday weekend with my age and solitude to see firsthand how far I’ve come and how much I have healed. Because here’s the thing, regardless of how annoyed I was that random strangers repeatedly pointed out my aloneness on my 43rd birthday week, regardless of the momentary embarrassment, regardless of my current life’s circumstances…I still feel FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC! I feel healthier, more in shape, more beautiful, more intelligent, worldly, accomplished and talented now, single, at 43 than I did at 23 or even 33.
The second theme of the weekend: Covid. A worldwide pandemic, which was a new experience for me and something that was the concerns of faraway lands or dystopian science fiction plots. Even when Ebola was a huge story in 2015, it was so far away that it was more surreal that real. Given my ACOA attributes, believing in imminent danger has always been a bit of a challenge; never believing the threat is as great as the media makes it out to be. But, here we are two years later. Several lockdowns come and gone. New regulations bi-weekly. Updates and newscasts so redundant I’ve stopped watching and simply wait for friends and family to inform me on the latest bulletin. Do we force people to get vaccinated or do we allow people free will? We’ve created a real-life science fiction movie, only horrendously boring, certainly not something I’d pay money to watch. I think I’d rather be in a zombie apocalypse. Pandemic aside, the effects of quarantine, not being able to travel, my teaching gigs being canceled, learning how to teach painting and drawing through a computer (pretty much the antithesis of the art), and the daily stress underlying every action or non-action are like a heart attack waiting to happen. Fuck drugs, I’ve got a pandemic to keep me on my toes, keep me up nights, turn me into an anxiety ridden chatter box, take away my sex drive, and propagate suicidal ideations.
The reason I was able to go to Toronto in the first place was because some of the quarantine regulations had been lifted, yet the city was still a ghost town compared to what it once was. Cities were always where the possibilities were; they were my refuge, where I could be myself, where I met new people, made new connections, danced until the sun came up. Not knowing what will happen but knowing that something will happen. They gave my life purpose in the possibilities. Now anxiety, anger and fear seem to permeate the air, like a thick humid day where the atmosphere can be cut with a knife it’s so dense.
Being in the city alone, as it was so eloquently pointed out to me on so many occasions, during an early lift of pandemic regulations was depressing. Although the city was accepting tourists, it wasn’t prepared for them, and I spent my time walking the streets of Toronto sad that very few places were open to the public. I took a ferry to Toronto Island, thinking the Island village would be open because every building has direct access to the outdoors. I was excited to walk around a hokey tourist trap just to feel some sense of normalcy, but the closed gate and sign that read “will be open in May” left my heart heavy. “Will it?” I wondered. What are our children being raised into? I was struck. I thought to myself, if this pandemic is any indication of what the future of our planet is going to be like, I better get my shit together and find a place to settle that I love, surrounded by people that I love, in a home that I love, doing what I love.
Here I am, the week after my birthday week. Feeling grateful. I had to go way down to come back up and it’s taken years…literally, so much longer than I ever dreamed. I have found my direction again. Although the details are still fuzzy, I will spend the next year diligently working toward it. I am single, but I’m not alone. I have close friends, my family and my dog, and I will find the rest of my tribe, my town, my home, my space, and my work. I will move to a place that I love so much that even if there was a quarantine for the rest of my life, I will be happy to spend time in my garden, my studio, and the company of my loved ones. I was once so driven to be an internationally recognized famous artist. It was so important to me to have that outside validation, but every time I won an award or gained recognition, I felt empty because I was never full to begin with. I’ll happily take any accolades and accomplishments that come my way, but I can honestly say, that my drive now is to be happy and content. Life is only worth it now if I wake up sober and happy, feeling grateful for my gifts and laughing genuinely, at least a little bit, every single day. Table for one? I’ll take it any day, as I have come to realize that I have so much to celebrate, even on my own.