I woke up with the proverbial splitting headache. Gosh, I wish I didn't have to go to work today. I'd like to stay in bed all day long and watch Days of Our Lives, Ellen, and Oprah. But no, I have to be a grown-up girl and face 'em.
Okay, I managed to shower, get dressed (navy blue suit, prim and proper, with a white blouse), and walk the dog. I even managed to get in my '97 Toyota Corolla and drive down I-75 into Atlanta. I even managed 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 skirts. 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!"
You can't 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 9:00 a.m. on a Friday morning ... absolute Hell on Earth. And on top of that, my headache charges right back and hits me behind the eyes. And 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! Behind my smiles I just want to crawl into a wastebasket.
And then Robert from Human Resources comes in. Gosh, Robert, I've been trying to date for six months. He thought I was twenty-five and now he (like everyone else) knows I'm thirty. Old. Old and single, an old maid. But he doesn't seem to mind, in fact his juicy, fleshy kiss on my left cheek tells me, "go for it!"
So I no longer have a headache.
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