Pity Party for 1.
When I RSVP to festivities, I make it my mission to arrive care-free, baggage-free, and drama-free while rockin’ a killer set of dancing shoes. Generally speaking, my demeanor and disposition is happy-go-lucky, and if someone or something rains on my parade, alter ego Mary freaking Poppins flies in with an extra large, silver-lined umbrella to make it all better.
But this week, despite my valiant efforts to dodge the self-righteous, self-addressed suckers, pity party invites are popping up left & right. They come in the form of sparkly diamond rings and b&w digital sonograms. Every time I blink, BAM, another life-changing announcement is made over the Internet followed by a wink and a smirk from my ego.
And although I’m beyond thrilled for their round brilliant cuts of happiness and fruitful fertility achievements [No really, I am. Seriously. I swear.] sometimes when these dreams come true before my very eyes…by the dozen…I can’t help but silently sigh.
When will it be my turn.
Mr T would be so disappointed in me.
