Dispatches From Paradise. Shelly Gitlow

precious little dog and go. That would be the best birthday present.”

      “Okay. So I should cancel the reservation?”

      “I’m sure Janice will love it.”

      I grab my clothes, go into the bathroom, and slam the door. I sit down on the bathtub, turn on the water, and start to bawl. This isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. Richard knocks on the door. I ignore him.

      “Bye, babe. I’ll call you. I know you’re going to miss me by tomorrow.”

      You self-centered, egotistical asshole. Still playing the old game. But thanks for clarifying things. I’m not going to miss you tomorrow (or ever).

      “Just go, Richard.”

      The hot shower washes away some of the tension. Mercifully, when I get out, Richard and Susu are gone. As I pull up my taupe Control Top pantyhose, my fingernail snags them, but I so don’t give a shit. After slapping on the minimal amount of makeup, I grab my attaché case and head out, fortified for the next bomb.

      I’m in my cubicle at the Bank of America, puttering around, having given up all pretenses of trying to look productive. I hear my supervisor Madeline approaching, her four-inch heels click-clacking, and don’t even feign industriousness. She knocks on my half-wall.

      “Gerald wants to see us in the lunchroom ASAP, Liz. I think it’s about the safety deposit boxes.”

      “Okay. I’ll be there in a minute.”

      Since it’s my birthday, I know exactly what’s coming. I enter the lunchroom and there they are, right out of central casting: “Bank Employees.” Only they’re whooping it up in party hats, blowing noisemakers, and throwing confetti at me as they sing a rousing “Happy Birthday.” Big surprise! We do the exact same thing for everyone’s “special” day.

      They seat me at the table in front of my cake with its 39 (+ 1 for good luck) candles, reminding me that I’m almost 40. I feel even older. How did I get here so fast? Surrounding the cake are my presents. I know what they are without opening them: picture frames, candles, empty journals that I’ll never fill. And the really clever ones will give me “liz”ard knick-knacks. All safe, easy gifts for someone you don’t really know and don’t want to offend.

      The ritualized mayhem continues. I can’t take it anymore. I stand up, put my fingers in my mouth, and whistle loudly. That gets their attention. They figure I’m going to make a nice “thank you” speech, so they look at me with smiling anticipation.

      “I want to thank you all . . . and . . . I quit.”

      As I reach under my skirt and pull down my pantyhose, my former co-workers look dumbfounded. No one can believe I’m actually taking this job and shoving it, or maybe they’re all fantasizing about leaving too. Whatever. I’m out of here. I throw the pantyhose over my shoulder like a bridal bouquet as I walk out the door. I wonder who caught them?

      Driving home, I open the sunroof and take in the breeze. I blast Jimmy Cliff’s “You Can Get It If You Really Want.” Oh yes I can, Jimmy. And I will. I pull into the driveway. Hard to believe it’s been less than two hours since I kicked Richard out. I can’t remember when I’ve had such a productive morning. What’s going on next door? Who’s that guy? He’s cute. Am I serious?

      I grab my bags of work memorabilia and get out of the car. The shirtless guy smiles and waves. He’s taking boxes out of a van. Is he a mover or my new neighbor? I couldn’t possibly be that lucky. Must be his job. He’s coming over. He’s about my age and definitely hot.

      “Can I help?”

      “No thanks, I’m okay.”

      “Well, just wanted to say hi. We’re moving in. Michael Pollack. And that’s my son Cole.”

      He points to an adorable teenager who’s coming out of the house. I wave and Cole flashes me an irresistible grin. His perfect white teeth look chewable. Father and son, what am I thinking? Uh oh. Richard’s gone and I’m turning into a pervert. I put my bags down and offer my hand to Michael. He shakes it just right, not wimpy, not too hard.

      “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Liz Harris. Where are you guys from?”

      “Cincinnati.”

      “Wow. Big move.”

      “Yeah, well, the weather’s a little better here. And Cole’s a diver. He’s on a full scholarship at the University of Miami. If he works hard, he could make the Olympic team.”

      “That’s great. My daughter’s in her first semester at Rollins, up in Winter Park. No scholarship for her, so it’s pretty pricey.”

      “I bet.”

      “Not that I’m complaining. My husband, soon to be ex, has it under control.”

      That’s the first time I’ve said that. He seems to look at me more seriously. I’m probably imagining that.

      Cole struggles to take a box out of the van.

      “I should help him.”

      “Sure. If you need anything, just holler.”

      “Um, actually, is there a good health food store around?”

      Must be a vegetarian. They can be preachy and self-righteous. I hope he’s not a strict one.

      “Sure. There’s a Whole Foods two blocks that way, take a right, and it’s about a mile. Do you only eat organic?”

      “I’m a vegan.”

      Swell. I don’t even know exactly what that is. But he seems okay with the Whole Foods.

      I stand in my closet, eyeing my pitiful wardrobe. Nothing’s right for a South Beach club. How did I let Anna talk me into this? I should have treated myself and bought something cool, but I was too busy plotting my major life changes. Oh well. Do I have anything from this decade?

      My choices are pathetically inappropriate. There’s the purple bridesmaid’s dress from Bernadette’s wedding that makes me look like a pregnant munchkin. Why do I even still have that? The white linen Tom Wolfe pantsuit would be perfect for an evening of throwing back mojitos and puffing on a big fat cigar. There’s the low-cut minidress that I never had the guts to wear. Hmmm.

      Looking at myself in the mirror, I wonder why I thought it was so revealing. It’s just above my knees and no cleavage is showing (not that I have any to speak of). Richard wanted me to get a boob job, but I refused. Would that have made a difference?

      Anna’s been my best friend since the third grade. Tonight we’re seated in front of the stage at The G-Spot, a Chuck E. Cheese for women, consuming a bottle of Dom Pérignon. I’m making a fish face and can’t feel my teeth. Nothing wrong with a little mood alteration, especially today. Anna’s beautiful, fun, sexy, and comfortable in her own skin, everything I’m not. Plus she’s the only person who’s ever totally gotten me.

      The place is filled with bachelorette parties and gals celebrating birthdays, divorces, and new babies and grandkids. We are a strange brew of hot young chicks, shell-shocked middle-aged women, and happy-to-be-out-and-about seniors. But there’s a common denominator among many of my fellow revelers: huge breasts. Not big C-cups, but enormous DD-cups. Some of them look okay. But some are teeny-tiny gals with sticks for legs. Those canteloupes protruding from their chests look absurd. Are huge mammaries the rage everywhere, or just Miami? Wherever there are men, I guess.

      “Tell me the truth. Do