R.S.V.P.

Yesterday I received a card in the mail. Since it’s nearing birthday season, I was excited, especially since I didn’t recognize the return address—perhaps I’m still clinging to some secret admirer or mysterious benefactor fantasy, one that led me to temporarily overlook the fact that they’d misspelled my first name on the envelope.

It was an invitation to a bridal shower. For a girl that I used to work with nine months ago. The extent of our relationship had been to eat lunch together twice, with all the other women in the office. (How I dreaded those salad-and-iced-tea estrogen fests!) No, wait: the day I got laid off, she walked into my office, saw my tear-stained face, the boxes, the fact that I was blasting “Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangster,” and said brightly, “Do you want to see a picture of the dress I decided on?”

Of all the nerve.

Calling me “Sara.”