Parked to head into wet tech for Fuddy and saw this abandoned in the parking lot.
My life flashed before me.
Suddenly I see forty-eight-year-old Paige, wrapped in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle snuggie (which are both so old in 2039, they’re so past being retro-cool) on a tan tweed couch. Next to forty-eight-year-old Paige was a long-haired and short-haired cat named Paulie and Sheila, respectively. Forty-eight-year-old Paige is watching Napoleon Dynamite for the third time that day, while latch-hooking a rug with a Santa Fe design on it.
It is 5:50 AM.
Forty-eight-year-old Paige puts her forest green sweater vest over a lime green thermal long-sleeve t-shirt. It’s time to go to work. Forty-eight-year-old Paige eats grapenut cereal for breakfast and packs Spaghetti-O’s in a thermos for lunch.
Forty-eight-year-old Paige pulls into her reserved parking space at the local Turner Broadcasting Building. Just kidding-she spends fourteen minutes driving to the sixth floor of a parking garage – but it’s okay because she’s listening to the White Album. Forty-eight-year-old Paige is the person in charge of maintaining all copy machines in the building. But she’s a lady and at least wears skorts and stockings with her work boots.
Forty-eight-year-old Paige talks to two people at lunch and then gets in the car to drive home. After she feeds the Paulie and Sheila, she eats kettlecorn and a cheese stick for dinner. She plays a little Poker online followed by a round of Karaoke Revolution. Forty-eight-year-old Paige calls her seventy-eight-year-old Mom and then pops Napoleon Dynamite into her post-DVD-technology player and calls it a night at 8:45 pm.
Nineteen-year-old Paige snaps back to reality.
Damn that Old Maid card.