One day last week I mentioned to Jon that I thought, or really that I think, that I’ve become a fairly boring twenty-nine year old who doesn’t have many exciting interests or goings-on outside of my husband and my dog and a pile of books and records haphazardly piled around my room. See also: this blog. He said that was nonsense and we’d just had dinner out with friends, and I’d just been discussing plans to go ice-skating with a group of people, without him, and that those things alone probably meant that I am not, in fact, as boring or as isolated, or as much of a homebody as I sometimes think I am.
Even so, I worry that I sometimes cocoon myself in my not-old-age, the slight hurdle of having to force oneself into newish situations keeping me from really putting myself out into the world in the evenings (generally weekdays) when I could just be watching netflix on my bed with a glass of wine, my furry dude (Bruce, not Jon), and my handsome companion by my side. Every night. Night after night. Boring? Maybe. But it’s my kind of boring. Also-it’s winter and the sun sets at four and I’m just ready to chill after work, ok? I’ll be fun again when the sun comes back. Maybe. Probably. Maybe.
(See above: pictures of my favorite dudes, and how we spend a lot of our time)