I know what you younger readers are thinking: “How can she possibly remember back that far?” Well, that’s one of the many, many, many strange and unexpected things about getting older. You can’t remember whether your socks are supposed to go on your feet or hang from your ears; but you recall every last detail of every date you had from the time you were thirteen, including what you were wearing. It’s kind of cool, really.

So yes, I can recount practically every hour of that 18th day of March of nineteen-whatever-year A.D. it was. Birthdays were still a big deal then, and more so because my birthday was also my sister Merna’s half-birthday (and vice-versa, obviously). She was five and a half years older, and we had spent most of our lives fighting as only sisters can do. But when it was her birthday or mine, it was dinner together in one of Washington’s finest restaurants. And that year it was my favorite: Costin’s Sirloin Room, in the National Press Building at 14th and F Streets, N.W. The building is still there, but sadly, the restaurant isn’t. It’s too bad, both because the food and service were phenomenal, and because I believe they hung a plaque in my honor on that marble column. I’m not sure, though, as I never did return after that day . . .

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s back up to earlier in the day. I was working in a small law firm, and had made sure everyone knew it was my birthday so that I would be deluged with “Happy Birthday” greetings as soon as I walked in the door that morning. I didn’t let anyone take me to lunch, though, because I was — as usual in those days — on a strict diet; and knowing I was scheduled for a huge dinner that evening, I had decided a liquids-only fast was in order until then.

But champagne is liquid . . . right? And my boss — a wonderful guy named Frank — had brought a bottle specifically for the occasion. At around 4:30, he declared the working day over, and he and I withdrew to his office, popped the cork of that bottle . . . and finished it off, just the two of us — me on an empty stomach — after which I drove home. (I know, I know, but I was young and stupid . . . not that that’s a legitimate excuse, but we’ve all done things we’d rather not confess to . . . )

So I drove home, fixed dinner for my two little ones, changed into something pretty, left the kids with my mother, and took off to fetch my sister and begin the evening’s festivities. And I felt fine.

Now, about that something pretty. It was a silk “tent” dress, above-the-knee length, and made to be gathered and belted at the waist. And at the time, I was a tiny size six, with kind of an hourglass figure: Dolly Parton on top, Scarlett O’Hara in the middle, and almost — but not quite — Kardashian on the hips, but without the huge dirigible in the rear. So that dress got belted as it was meant to be. In case you’re wondering, the dress plays a starring role later in this drama.

*. *. *

There was an extra person with us at dinner that evening: the boyfriend of a friend of Merna’s who was visiting from the west coast. He was anticipating a really good meal, but not the floor show that went with it . . .

I recall starting the evening with one — just one — whiskey sour, then launching into my favorite Costins meal: fresh-baked crusty rolls with their secret-recipe cheese spread, salad, and a whopping slab of prime rib practically hanging off the edges of the plate. The baked potato, loaded with sour cream of course, was on a separate plate. And when I think of it now, I want to vomit.

These days, I’d be full after a piece of bread and the salad; but back then, I had an appetite like a longshoreman’s, and I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. So that beautiful, juicy, perfectly rare hunk of bovine was not going to waste . . . to my waist, maybe, but not to waste. (Don’t you love the English language?)

*. *. *

After finally putting down our forks and knives and allowing the waiter to remove our plates with the few remaining scraps, we were in the middle of a very pleasant discussion of the dessert menu when I announced to my dinner companions that I was not feeling very well. Merna took one look at me, stood up, took me by the arm, and we headed back to the ladies’ room at the other end of the restaurant. And about halfway there, we came to that big marble column I mentioned earlier . . .

I felt myself going. I reached for the column . . . and missed. As I slid slowly toward the floor, my first and only thought was, “Oh, Merna’s going to be so pissed.” The next thing I knew, one of the wonderful Costin’s waiters was standing behind me, hands in my armpits, trying to pull me up onto my feet. And then I had a second thought: “My dress!” It was short, it was silk, and it was sliding rapidly north. As the waiter pulled me upward, I grabbed the skirt of the dress and pulled down. He pulled up; I pulled down. He pulled up . . . Well, you get the picture. I finally managed to reach a vertical position without having exposed too much of my Kardashian end (I hope), just as the waiter guided me two steps to my left and into a chair . . . at a table across from two men apparently engaged in an intense business discussion.

“Well, hello there.”

No, they didn’t actually say it — in fact, they didn’t say anything. They were dumbstruck. But never one to let a moment pass without some sort of comment, I looked at them, somewhat glassy-eyed, mumbled “I’m not drunk, honestly” . . . as my forehead hit the table and it all went dark once more. Luckily — the only real bit of luck during this entire time — there was no food on my side of the table.

I was told I was only out for a moment. When I sat up — and offered an abject apology to the two men, who still hadn’t uttered a sound — I was able, with Merna’s support, to make it back to the ladies’ room, where I splashed a little cold water on my face and sat for a few minutes. Then — and I still can’t believe I did this — we returned to our table, where I ordered a huge slice of Costin’s famous rum pie and washed down every last crumb with a cup of tea.

And then I drove home.

*. *. *

There was something magical — in an evil sense, not a good one — about that 30th birthday. For whatever reason, it hit me hard, as though the number 30 indicated the end of the best years of my life. For the next four or five years, I told people I was “29 and holding,” until my smart-mouthed daughter — by then aged eight or nine — said to give it up; no one was going to believe me for much longer anyway.

And so it goes. The following decades were somehow easier, and in fact, some of my best years were yet to come. I guess I just adjusted to the idea that I wasn’t Peter Pan. It’s either that, or drive yourself and everyone around you batshit crazy. Sometimes I would still jokingly tell people I was 29 and holding, and you know what? My daughter was right . . . they didn’t believe me.

Since every story needs a moral, I suppose mine is simply this:

Tempus fugit . . . and we are all destined to fugit with it. No sense trying to lie about it.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/13/24