#imashamedyourethewinningsperm
I belt out my first genuine laugh of the day and set the phone down, knowing Brenden is going to have Dad’s ass for going there. I emerge from underwater a minute later when Adria’s reply comes through.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke Dear Mr. Collins,
I’m not at all surprised by your request, nor your complaint. Your son has a self-inflated ego that can often compromise him at home. As his wife’s best friend and the sole reason they stay married, I sympathize completely. Also, I often hear him jamming out to old eighties girl groups, and last week, I believe he was belting out something by Heart. This should make an interesting selection. I will fill out the document on his behalf with a few more choice songs I think all will enjoy. All my sympathy for your embarrassment.
Adria Dillion
Senior Assistant, Networth Inc.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke Christmas is canceled. Adria is fired. I hope you’re happy, Clark.
Brenden Collins
CEO Networth Inc.
December 19, 2021
Subject: Collins Christmas Karaoke Heart and The Bangles? Really, son? Where are your balls?
Allen Collins
Father of two daughters Thoroughly entertained but deciding not to engage, I unplug the drain, dry, dress, and fill out the form before packing. After lugging my case to the door, I glance around my lifeless apartment and decide that time with my family is exactly what I need to turn things around. Just as I go to turn off the TV, Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” plays in the background of a commercial. I decide to take it as a sign. The upside of bottoming out is that it can only get better from here…right?
Taking a right on the short road that dead-ends at my grandparent’s cabin, my engine whines in protest due to the steepness of the hill and the fact that my car is an outdated piece of shit incapable of handling mountainous terrain. Stupidly, I celebrated too soon when I crossed into North Carolina at the Tennessee border. Thirty seconds away from parking safely, I’m reminded the celebration was premature.
“No, God, no, no!” The engine begins to steam and stall as the incline plasters me back to my seat just as I catch sight of the cabin which sits to the left, perched only a handful of yards from the edge of the cliff. Terrified I’ll somehow backslide, I send up a thousand prayers and miraculously manage to take the sharp left, up another steep incline, and into the driveway.
Heart pounding, I peel my ghostly white fingers from the wheel and sigh in relief, knowing I should’ve bit the bullet in buying a new car months ago, but I waited in vain. With the increase in salary from my promotion, I planned on buying a shiny new SUV, something with leather seats that practically drives itself.
Though I make a good living with my executive salary, I’ve kept the sedan far past its reliable years for some inexplicable reason.
The car itself declares its existence and our time together over as it exacerbates sputtering to its death as the morning full of hope I mustered in the six-hour drive evaporates—much like the smoke seeping from all sides of my hood. Breathing out a sigh of relief, I kick back into my seat and slowly exhale. Reaching behind the passenger seat, I blindly rummage through my supply box and grip whatever bottle is closest. Once armed, I unscrew the top and down a mouthful of warm Jack Daniels to settle my nerves.
Two weeks. I have two weeks to formulate a course of action and decide on a new career goal. Six of those days will be spent here with my family to distract me from the pressure of making said plans. I’ll use every one of those six days to ignore the idea of putting on heels and striding through the office again as the powerhouse I had hoped to be.
Though I can’t deny the majority of my current dismay stems from the fact that I’m once again the only family member arriving alone.
Mr. Right never came, and after last night, I realized I may never be the career woman I hoped to become. Because if I were thriving at that, at least I would have ample excuse—a decent enough reason to be a failure in my personal life.
No one girl can have it all, right?
And with the death of my white horse, I’m officially the poor man’s version of Bridget Jones. Except I don’t expect to meet the love of my life wearing an ugly Christmas jumper, nor do I see myself forgoing alcohol units only to have two devastatingly gorgeous British men engaging in a street fight over my affection in the near future.
If only.
Screwing the cap back on, I pop in a breath mint and mentally note my first New Year’s resolution.