IT’S THE worst possible Friday to be stuck in traffic. While I’m pinned between a thirtysomething honker in a Mercedes jeep and an Egged bus jamming up Pinsky Street, my husband’s at Carmela Bar, helping Shlomi set up his 4-piece jazz band and singer. My son is there, too. The chef’s putting the final touches on ‘seviche’ and roast beef, and the barman’s giving a last polish to beer, wine and whisky glasses. They’re getting ready for a sixtieth birthday party. Mine. And while many friends - 70 to be exact - will soon stream into the oak-paneled pub, all I can do is sit in my Golf, fuss with my new skirt and blouse, and keep my ‘Baby Janes’ party shoes off the gas. I’ve never been much of an in-the moment fan. I’m a planner, always looking ahead to the weeks and months to come. Trips, dinner parties, household repairs - I arrange things down to the last detail, taking into account every possible glitch, dodging pitfalls like a sapper removing mines. My son says I’m a control freak. My husband says I never relax. I claim this kind of forethought made my business successful and social life full. It has kept our household purring as efficiently as a fine-tuned engine. In fact, my drive to get things done and done well has afforded me more success than I ever dreamed. What it hasn’t ever let me do is sit back and enjoy the moment. The bus gasps and moves a few meters up the hill, then jerks to a stop. I can’t see beyond it, but the guy behind me is running one hand through a full head of chestnut hair and pounding the other on his metallic green door. I know how he feels. I just haven’t felt that way lately. It was this party that threw me into a spin of indecision. For months I made lists of pros and cons, consulted with friends, asked myself, over and over, if I really wanted to celebrate. I read every article written by wishful-thinking baby boomers claiming age is merely a mindset, today’s sixty is yesterday’s fifty, and ‘mature’ sex rocks no less than its Woodstock precursor. The number, according to ageing flower children, means nothing. “It’s just another birthday,” I said to my husband, December rain washing away my enthusiasm like dust off leaves. “And March - it’ll be cold and miserable. " “It’s a milestone that should be celebrated.” His dark eyes, as always, were serious. “And weather, like your mood, is no excuse.  If I’m having a party for my thirtieth, "my son said more than once, “why shouldn’t you have one for living twice as long? "I couldn’t argue with him. He would never understand my preference for silver haired obscurity over even the slightest chance of looking foolish. A last-minute shopper maneuvers his way between the bus bumper and mine, bulging plastic bags in hands held high as though praying for safe passage. I’ve had a great ride. I’ve lived in two countries, speak three languages, owned ten cars, lived in sixteen apartments, and my passport has more stamps than I can count. You’ll hear no complaints about missed opportunities, the coulda, woulda, shoulda syndrome of people who look back in anger and dismay. Not that I haven’t made mistakes. I’ve made plenty. But a doomed first marriage got me to Israel. Butting heads with a stuffy professor prompted my MA. And choosing to work for the wrong real estate office propelled me into starting my own. That guy behind me? The one whose hand is glued to the horn? That would have been me just a while back. Wired, focused, impatient with anything and anyone that restrained me, I stormed through lists of ‘to-dos’, thinking on my feet, which always moved at a breathless pace. Financial security, retirement, - none of it produced the serenity I’d been told comes with age. But these last few months, I’ve found myself slipping. Waffling over the party was just the beginning. I postponed fixing our leaky roof. Kept quiet when the gardener didn’t arrive. I’ve even found myself standing in line at the supermarket without shoving groceries on those of a chatty lady holding up the works. The bus spits smoke out of its exhaust pipe and jerks forward. My watch says 12:50. It’s a hundred meters to the pub, though at this rate, it could be as many kilometers. Parking is out of the question. All the spots are taken. I look in the rearview mirror. The guy behind me is yelling into his cell phone, honking, oblivious to a fragile Filipino, her hand cupping the withered arm of a woman three times her age, as they take their daily walk. “It’ll be a great party.” It was the only thing my husband could say when faced with the furrow that had taken up residence between my eyes. “The food. Music. You’ll see. It’ll be fine.” He didn’t know that what really had me worried was the calm that had settled over me like quiet after a storm. The chef suggested mini-kebabs. I agreed. Green rice? Sure. And unable to choose between pear and kiwi pie, I told him to figure it out himself. No demands. No fire. Not even a spark. What was wrong with me? The bus moves twenty meters, revealing an empty spot on the right. I flick on my blinker and slide into the berth, honker hot on my heels to fill the vacuum, as though someone else on the narrow oneway street could possibly steal the gap. I fluff my hair, grab my bag and step out of the car into late winter sun. Honker’s window is so close I can see his white knuckles clasping the wheel. An iPod crowns a laptop on the seat next to him. “There are only three cars ahead. "I say. “It shouldn’t be long before you reach Moriah Street. "He’s glaring at the bus, steel eyes willing it forward. “I haven’t got time for this nonsense. "I want to tell him that he does. That time is a gift. That it should be savored. And that nothing in life is nonsense. But he’s busy revving the gas, muttering to himself. A scooter flashes by like a red flare. Honker starts tapping his fingers on the wheel. I turn and walk up Pinsky, legs moving easily in my joints, arms swinging at my sides, one foot after the other, picking up speed with each step. I’m dashing up the stairs to Carmela Bar when the horn bleats. “Free at last,” honker hollers out, and the green Mercedes swings onto Moriah, tires shrieking around the turn. I pull the brass ring on the rustic door, and move towards my husband and son, half-walking, half-dancing to Shlomi’s rendition of ‘All The Way’.