On the morning before her fiftieth birthday, Margaret Elizabeth woke up in a foul mood. Given recent events, no one could blame her for lacking cheer. She lay in bed, eyes still shut, muttering to herselfor rather, stating the grim reality of her situation.
*”Tomorrow I’ll be fifty! That’s so old! And what do I have to show for it? I studied hard. Married young. Never cheated. Raised a good daughter who also married young. Eighteen years at the same job, teaching geographytelling kids about places Ive never seen and never will. Unless, by some miracle, the Atlantic Ocean crashes into my backyard along with the Great Wall of China. Fat chance. Even if it did, theyd just litter the ocean and spray-paint the Wall. Ive got three certificates from the mayor and a flare-up of hemorrhoids. Most of my students hate me and my subject. Why do they need geography? Why should they care about places theyll never go? To them, Im just a useless relic of the school system, and they dont bother hiding it. Ive got that kind of beauty nobody talks aboutthe sort where people say, Shes got a kind heart or She keeps a tidy home. Im a rosy tomato, maybe red if I catch some sun. My hairs the colour ofwell, nothing poetic, just grey. And my husband? Oh, hes gone and stuffed himself with pears. Literally. My dear Philip, visiting his mum in some godforsaken corner of Walesas if were on opposite cheeks of the same miserable backsidegorged on unripe pears straight from the tree and missed his train. And I do mean *missed* it in the most undignified way. Next trains not for a week. My daughter and her husband? Off in faraway Japan because Mum, you dont even celebrate, and the trip was practically free. So here I am, facing my birthday alone. My husbands an idiot, my daughter picks cheap holidays over her own mother, nobody loves or respects me. To them, Im just good for meals and passing marks.”*
With these cheery thoughts, Margaret dragged herself out of bed, shoved her feet into fuzzy slippers, and shuffled to the kitchen. Behind her waddled a plump little corgi named Pradaher daughters recent gift. The only Prada shed ever own.
As the kettle boiled, she opened her social media. The first post was an ad: *”Today only! Webinar: Dig Deep and Find Your Inner Princess. First time in the UK! Led by self-proclaimed life coach Victor Holloway. Learn to love yourself and stop caring what others think! (Success not guaranteed.) By the end, every participant will birth their inner princess live on screen! Starts in 30 minutes.”*
*”This is it! My chance to turn this dull, miserable life around! What else have I got to lose?”* She clicked join and vanished into the fantasy of self-reinvention.
What happened in that webinar? No ideawe didnt pay for it. But when Dr. Holloway signed off with *”You deserve to rebirth yourself!”*Margaret looked like shed yanked out a princess, and not through the most dignified exit.
She was reborn.
Ideally, full transformation wouldve taken timeexercise, self-improvement, earning respect, changing habits. The faux doctor had mumbled something about months, but Margaret didnt have that luxury. She *would* greet her birthday as a princess, not a sad, pink beefsteak tomato.
And where theres a will, theres a speedy, reckless way.
The next 24 hours were chaos. The newborn princess was *impatient*. By afternoon, shed fully consumed old Margaret. She googled beauty standards and trends, emerging with: eyelash extensions, manicured nails, stilettos, denim shorts labelled *Prada*, and a crop top reading *”Wild Thing Tonight!”* complete with giant red lips and a lolling blue tongue (*probably fashionable?*). She binge-watched micro-courses: *”Sultry Makeup in 10 Minutes,”* *”Pole Dancing for Beginners,”* and *”Advanced Flirting”* (free with the makeup tutorial).
The princess decreed Margaret would now answer to *”Trixie”* and *”own it.”*
*”By tomorrow,”* Trixie declared, *”youll wake up beside some ripped millionaire after a night of passion. Then its shopping sprees, holidays, and *real* Prada!”*
Margaret stammered protests*What about Philip? My job? Respectability?*but Trixie just cackled, displaying impressive vocal range.
With a final whimper, Margaret dissolved into her new persona.
Then came prepping for the club: contouring, squeezing into shorts, practicing struts in heels. Philip, her mother-in-law, and daughter called with birthday wishes. Old Margaret wouldve thanked them. Trixie? She unloaded years of resentmentjust as Dr. Holloway advised. It didnt feel better. (*Maybe delayed effect?*)
By 11 PM, a dazzling *”Trixie”* wobbled into *The Pub* (a name lacking imagination), ready for adventurepreferably the scandalous kind.
*The Pub* surrendered after one *”B-52″* cocktail.
Thats the last thing she remembered.
Morning brought a pounding headache and inexplicably sore legs. Hangover-Margaret was far more present than Trixie. She opened her eyesthen squeezed them shut.
*Hallucinations.* Her former student, chronic truant Jake Thompson, stood in her doorway in boxers.
*”God, now Im seeing things,”* she croaked.
*”Morning, Miss Elizabeth! Not a hallucination. Tom Harris and Liam Carter are crashed on your sofa. We carried you home last nightstayed in case you needed anything. Fancy some hair-of-the-dog?”*
Margaret groaned, patting herself down under the covers*Had she with students?!* Shorts? Check. Top? Check. Underwear? Check. Bra? *Gone.*
*”Dont worry,”* Jake said, *”we didnt touch a thing. Need anything, or can we head off?”*
Relief flooded her. No tabloid-worthy scandal today.
Her phone rang. Unknown number.
*”Hello?”* she rasped.
*”Miss Elizabeth? Its BenBen Cooper? From school? You left your passport at my bar last night. And, uh your bra. I can drop them off laterplumbers coming to fix the pipes.”*
*”Ben! Of course I remember! Youre such a dear. Own a bar now? So proud!”*
*”Well, about that You kinda broke the counter dancing on it. And the plumbing? That was the pole-dancing attempt.”*
Trixie immediately tried climbing back into whatever dark corner shed been dragged from. Margarets hemorrhoids screamed. Reverse birth *hurts*.
*”Ben, love, Ill pay for everything!”*
*”Dont be silly! You were my favourite teacher. Just got back from Francetold my mates all your stories. They thought I was a tour guide! Ill install a steel counter next time. Dance all you want!”*
He hung up.
Her daughter called next, apologising, announcing a grandchild (*”If its a girl, were naming her after you!”*). Margaret wept, telling her to *”kiss that night owl husband of yours.”*
Then Philip ranghed hitch a ride with a lorry mate, be home by evening. *”Love you. Buying you a fur coat tomorrow. A beauty like you deserves one.”*
Margaret sobbed that she just wanted *him*.
Showered and tea in hand, she slumped on the sofa, struck by a realisation:
*She had a wonderful life.*
Exactly the one she wanted. A loving husband, a brilliant daughter, kind students. She cherished her unglamorous routine, her jars of homemade jam. She *liked* being Margaret.
Laughing and crying, she reminisced.
Prada (the corgi) clambered onto her lap, nuzzling for pets.
*”Listen, love,”* Margaret murmured, *”lets change your name. Prada doesnt suit you. Youre no more a Prada than Im a Trixie. How about Thames? Majestic. Historic. Did you know its the longest river entirely in England?*
Thames gave a corgi snortcontent as long as the scritches continued.
Deep inside Margaret, the princess finally curled up where she belonged.
Never to ruin a good thing again.
