My parents sent me an e-mail yesterday describing their Fourth of July. My mom and dad watched masterpiece theatre together and then watched fireworks out the back window, from inside the house. My mom explained, "No mosquitoes, no humidity, no crowds. My favorite way to watch fireworks!" Her explanation made me laugh a little at my parents and reflect on what it must be like to become boring. Let's be clear. I'm comforted my mom isn't out galavanting with "the girls" in dimly lit bars, squeezed into skinny jeans with rhinestones on the pockets and I'm especially glad my father isn't wearing leather blazers and leering at young women. Still, there life could be a bit more peppy, right? Then I reflected on my Fourth of July, sipping Bad Juanita Margaritas and playing a raucous round of pool volleyball. I also sent several creative texts that night, "Slerp overt?" to my boyfriend and "watoncg interverneego" which of course means, "Will you please come sleep over and watch intervention with me at my apartment?" In case you couldn't tell. While these instances can be embarassing, compared to my parent's evening when I reflected, I felt smugly superior that I am still in my wild twenties while my parents have settled into the "couch era" of their relationship. Last night I was reminded of the inevitable truth that I am destined to become my mother.
Guess what I did last night! I had the most fun I've had in a really long time. I had the best date with my boyfriend I've had in a really long time. I felt appreciated and sexy and desirable. There was romance coupled with the kind of comfortable familiarity that comes from knowing someone for a while. Did we go out dancing? Romantic candlelight? Sushi? No. We had Digornio oven pizza, air popcorn, and watched DVR'd "Hoarders" and "White Collar". Seriously. This is my idea of a good time. Oh, and I complained loudly about my back cramp. Sexy! And I'm not being sarcastic that I had a good time. I am sincere in my enthusiasm (but I told you that because it's never a good idea to assume I'm NOT being sarcastic.) Honestly, I have like afterglow happiness from last night, and the most romantic thing that happened was that Matt, trying to replicate a line from "White Collar", said, "My dream girl is about 5'2'' and has...beautiful...eyes." Notice the pregnant pause around the part where Peter in "White Collar" said of his wife, "she has beautiful, blue eyes." I called him out. "Oh my God, you don't know my eye color!" "Well I know important things...like that you're birthday is September 3rd." I protested, "but you look at me everyday!" "Well," he said, "I guess your eyes are kind of swampy brown..." My boyfriend thinks my eye color looks like a moldy swamp full of shit. And I'm weirdly ok with that.
I'm not actually making fun of our evening couch date; I'm making fun of the degree of happiness it brought me. A few blogs ago when we went to a picturesque Italian restaurant and to an amazing movie at an independent theatre I was lamenting about how quickly the weekend goes by. Yet when we park on his couch, in sweats and no makeup, watching people who hoard cats clean feces off their house floors, I am literally glowing from happiness the next day at work. I'm becoming my parents. The crowd-hating, seldom alcohol-consuming, homebodies I know and love.
One of my best friends, Katie, sent me a text this morning, "Is it bad that I am literally living for the weekend?" To which I replied, "Welcome to the working world there, champ." I now wish I would have sent back, "Is it bad that A&E programming plus frozen food is the key to my immortal soul?"
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