I groan myself out of bed and somehow manage to shower, get dressed (navy blue suit, prim and proper, with a white blouse), and walk the dog. I even manage to get in my '97 Toyota Corolla and drive down Georgia 400 into Atlanta. I even manage to park the car in the garage off Peachtree Street and get my Starbucks. Always the same, venti white chocolate mocha. Love it, even if my wasteline's pushing at my skirt. Who's gonna know, looking at a single girl from Alpharetta? Thank God, the caffeine's kicking in and my headache's going away. And then I walk into the office ... and they all yell, "Surprise! Happy birthday, Carol!"
You can imagine my horror. It's bad enough to be celebrating your thirtieth birthday, but for all the people you've spent the last six years with to know it and to scream it out at the top of their lungs at nine a.m. on a Friday morning ... it's like Abba on steroids. On top of that my headache charges right back and hits me between the eyes. I've got to smile and pretend I'm surprised, I'm happy, oh thank you everyone for thinking of me on my thirtieth birthday, I can't believe y'all are so sweet to me. I just want to crawl into a wastebasket. I count the hours until my eiderdown quilt, red bathrobe, and Chelsea Handler's latest rant.
Robert from Shipping comes in, he of the green eyes, brawny muscles, and snippets of muscle armpit hair peeking through his tight white t-shirts. Gosh, Robert, I've been trying to land him for six months. I told him I was twenty-five and now he knows I'm thirty. Old. Old and single, an old maid. But he doesn't seem to mind ... in fact his juicy, fleshy kiss has me sliding off my chair and thinking, "go for it!"
So I no longer have a headache.
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