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“Y’know, today isn’tthatbad,” I tighten my towel around my boobs and lift open the top of the washing machine. “Yes, it’s my thirtieth birthday. And yes, I’m spending it doing my laundry—alone—but who am I to expect the world to stop spinning and throw me a pity party, y’know?”
I peer down into the hollow barrel of my washing machine. A full load of pink-tinted blouses stare back at me.
Those blouses used to be white.
Twenty-three minutes ago.
Shit—did I accidentally drop a red sock in there or something?
Rising onto my tiptoes, I lean down and dig through the damp laundry in search of the errant article of clothing responsible for ruining half my wardrobe. “What I’m saying is, life is all about choices. And I choose to be grateful,” I declare as I pick the strawberry-patterned granny panties I wore to work this morning out of the load of discolored blouses. “I’m grateful for this house I bought all on my own. And for a job I love. And for you…”
Feeling a genuine flutter of happiness in my heart, I pause to tickle behind the ear of the five-pound ball of fur and bones curled up atop the dryer. Captain Ginger lazily opens one amber eye to squint vacantly at me.
“As far as birthdays go, this one isn’t atotaldud…right?”
The grumpy bastard lifts his little orange paw and smacks my hand away from his ear.
“Hey!” I chide softly. “Don’t be mean to me. I’m going through a ‘thing’ right now. I could use some emotional support.”
I pour in a bit of detergent and restart the washing machine, hoping to rinse the red dye out of my blouses. While the barrel fills with water, I turn around to scoop up the basket of tank tops, gym bras and yoga pants I just pulled out of the dryer. I find the haughty white Persian cat stretched out across the top of my clean clothes.
Well, no wonder I’m always covered in cat hair.
“Cotton Ball! You’re not supposed to be there and you know it.” I gently shoo her off and she hops down to her feet in that regal way of hers, cursing at me the whole time.
These two are a pair of entitled, little brats. Too bad they’re so damn adorable. And I’m gettingwaymore attached to them than I should.
With my phone clutched securely in my palm, I pad up the stairs, laundry basket tucked under my arm.
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, today hasn’t beenentirelylame. Alana took me out for lunch earlier, and she splurged on a huge piece of double chocolate cake. Isn’t she sweet?” I grin at the thought of my lifelong bestie. “Anyway, we didn’t come close to finishing the cake, so I’ve got at least one thing sitting in the fridge to look forward to later. Then, Emma and Ziggy promised to take me out this weekend, so I’ll count that as another ‘something’ to look forward to.”
I enter my bedroom, Captain Ginger and Cotton Ball tangling around my ankles.
These cats have been extra, extra clingy tonight. Which is a tad creepy, because the orange one usually stays hidden all day, only coming out to attack my socked feet while I get ready for bed.
But tonight, it’s like they're rubbing up against my legs, mewling at me, and saying, “We understand you’re thirty now and still all alone. Adopt us and we’ll upgrade you from lonely bachelorette to crazy cat lady.”
“I’m onto you,” I murmur to them as I lower to the edge of my bed with a bottle of moisturizer in hand.
Most of my recent birthdays have been spent with my girlfriends, but this year, it seems that everyone has something more important to do. Alana, Ziggy, Emma—hell even the woman who birthed me—all had excuses for why they couldn’t celebrate with me tonight.
I’ve been trying to brush it off, to not be offended, reminding myself that the girls all have their own lives to live with their own things happening. Especially on a week night.
But it sure doesn’t help that what was promising to be a sunny spring day somehow rolled into a rainy and miserable night. I thought I could at least treat myself to a solo picnic on my back patio, but apparently the weather gods were like “Nope, we’ve got other plans, too.”
I’ve been anticipating this day with mild to moderate levels of dread for pretty much the last three years. But now that it’s here and has proven more uneventful than a trip to the eye doctor, I’m starting to wonder why I’ve been psyching myself out all this time.
My phone dings on the mattress next to me and I pounce on it. But disappointment sweeps over my body like a wave when I see it’s just a few of the girls from Corri’s hair salon, sending me a string of silly celebratory gifs.
Earlier, my friend Minka from Sin Valley sent me the most perfect birthday serenade featuring her rockstar husband, Declan, and their adorable babbling toddler, Melody. I smile to myself as I watch the video again.
Throughout the day, my phone’s been buzzing with texts and calls from all my close friends and relatives, wishing me a happy day.
…Except for one person. Cash.
Which, for the life of me, doesn’t make any sense. Cash has never, ever missed a single birthday. If we couldn’t see each other in person, he’s always called. The birthday calls have been the more frequent mode of celebration in recent years since he lives so far away. But this year? Nothing. Dead silence.
I’m surprised by how much that stings.
