by A.L. Goulden
At thirty-two, I’ve come to the frustrating realization that I may never have the Big-O. And there must be a glow I’m missing, or some signal of dysfunctional sadness I’m putting off, because everyone seems worried about my happiness this Christmas. Who’d a thought a blind date, a massage gift certificate, and a road bike fit for Tour de France could lead to the same ultimate Christmas gift?