On December 28, I returned to work, hoping to hide out in the holiday-hollowed halls of academia. No such luck. The first of the three dastardly “Ds” in my life, my ex-wife and fellow faculty member, Daphne, anticipated my strategy and beat me there. She stopped me as I reached my office door to ask if I’d decided on the song I wanted.
“Remember, to be an Eve on New Year's Eve is truly special. Even if you don't have a date for my party.”
Eve had been listening to Charlotte on her hands-free phone as she drove to the spa. She made a mental note: in the future only take Charlotte's calls on a land line, one equipped with a heavy receiver Eve could slam into its base.
I had put it off as long as I could. To finish my retirement paperwork required either my Social Security card, which was packed away somewhere, probably in a box in the attic, or evidence I had applied for a replacement. When I was employed thirty years ago, I didn’t have to show the card, but now, after all that time working and paying taxes with the number, my employer needed proof it belonged to me.
This Thanksgiving, I promised my family I would be a different person. From the moment I woke on Thanksgiving Day until–well, until–I agreed to be the new and improved me. If I failed, I would not be trusted again, and next year, I could be the sacrifice.
