My parents gave me a surprise 30th birthday party, which I couldn't enjoy because of its bad, bad timing, catching me off guard in a rotten mood and with three-day dirty hair, when I was vulnerable and least in need of surprises. There was a moment of darkness and then a flash of light and shrill sound. I fixed on the only unfamiliar face in the crowd—that of a blond young man, dressed in a red suit and hat that made him look like an organ grinder's monkey. He tap danced on a square of checkered tile and read me a birthday poem. I watched and listened, stunned— circles of light from the flash bulbs still blazing in front of me. The blond boy's face was the only resting place for my eyes. The other party faces beamed, with their fishbowl features and their familiar smiles, and while the tap dancer finished his poem, I composed myself and prepared to greet them.

Thirty was the age I had sworn as a child I would never be, an age that had crept up behind me and startled me with its tap on my shoulder. I felt old and unaccomplished—not inclined to celebrate. In the past year I had watched web-footed wrinkles sprout from the corners of my eyes, and seen another fold form in my stomach. On the morning of the party, I had found a second white hair, a neon string in my black head, come to dash my hopes that the first one had been just a fluke.

The blond boy disappeared, with his peach fuzz and a tip from my father and his square of checkered tile. The party picked up steam. There were streamers and dips and spiked punch, and sagging chins held up by the fragile straps of party hats. I was subdued, like a bride at her wedding, I thought, but then how would I know? I watched my friends