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The week I turn 50, I do all the things.

I’m supposed to be in Cuba, but I’m in Toronto – an interesting choice that I’m second guessing until I do the thing and kill it, but I’m getting ahead of the story.

I’m in Toronto with my loverly partner and they’ve never been, so over the weekend, I am a cicerone of sorts. Of course, all I know about Toronto are the book shops and the shoe stores, also, a few cafes.

We go to all the book shops and eat all the food.

Also, we dance at Lula Lounge with my work dancing queens, because dance is life.

Well, life is life. But dance makes life better.

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On Monday, I take myself to the Bata Shoe Museum and then along Queen Street West to Church – that is, the Toronto John Fluevog Store, because a) it’s huge and b) it has an illusion room in a former bank vault c) why do I even need to give a reason? I go to Church in every city I visit that has one. Don’t judge. I don’t believe in god but I believe in the power of shoies to make any mundane day better.

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On Tuesday, on my way back to the hotel from my Toronto office, where I spend a fairly productive day, I stop to buy a rose to make my lover’s heart sing. Buy the men in your lives flowers more often, people. It feels good – to get flowers. To give flowers.

Tuesday is our actual birthday – not the royal we, but the loverly we, which is really cool. Everyone should partner up with someone who shares your birthday. It’s very fun. Also, efficient. It’s our birthday trip. What shall we have for our birthday dinner, how shall we celebrate?

By eating the 27-ingredient Singapore Slaw at Lee Restaurant, of course. If you have not experienced this, put it on your bucket list.

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On Wednesday, I do the thing I came to Toronto to do, and I make magic happen. I’m so high. And then my colleagues fete me all night long in the most incredible way (unrelated to the magic I performed, btw) and I can’t get over it because I’m kind of a cranky bitch at work most of the time, focused on product, impatient of process and frequently inconsiderate of people – why do you all like me so much, I sob as I blow out the candles?

(But they do. Mystery.)

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Thursday, I do a little more magic. Kill it again. Sidenote: It is very fulfilling to be good at that thing you get paid for. Definitely.

Then, goodbyes. Flight delay. A few hours in a sheesha lounge with my loverly love pretending to work. Airport. Flight delay continued. We will get home eventually, right? Plane. Take off. Interrupted sleep. Landing. More waiting. Uber. I’m in bed shortly after 4 a.m. Hey, it’s already Friday.

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On Friday, I celebrate the birth of my eldest, now 22. When did that happen? He was a slime-covered mewling newborn just yesterday, you know? We spend the day, birthday boy and siblings, sitting on motorcycles and eating too much food. I pat my primordial pouch with pleasure, watch this man child I grew with joy.

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Saturday, I have almost all the people I love in one room for a final shared birthday celebration. My cup runs over and all that.

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Sunday, I spend the day in bed, feeling things.

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And then it’s Monday again and time to return to the ordinary and routines

The cup is full.

The well is deep.

It will be a good week.

xoxo

“Jane”

PS *I realize the headline is misleading. Whatcha gonna do. I wanted to alliterate. With the latter P.

PS2 It was a rather hard Monday tbh. But. The well is deep, the cup is full. It will be a good week.

PS3 But will it? I wrote this before reading the news and starting my day and I end it feeling sick and horrified and guilty for being alive and happy and safe. How can ordinary life go on and feel beautiful when horrific things happen to an entire people? I don’t know. Do you? I make the decision to hit publish anyway as this is my reality. And my guilt. We probably share it. It will be a good week… for some. Definitely not for others.