I'm a weekday teetotaler, with no intention of ever again letting my brain go blotto. In fact, if there is a reason I might have to go out that weekend -- a birthday party, a going away party, the rare visit from an out-of-towner who expects me play a version of myself from 2003 -- I resent whatever evil pressure is planning to separate me from my very soft sweatpants.
I spend a lot of energy on Fridays seesawing between: Do I want to go out? or Do I want to stay in?
FACT: I prefer to go out on a Friday night to going out on a Saturday night. It takes me approximately 36 hours for my body to remember how to make water after a night out, and a similar amount of time for me to stop mentally adding "... and melted cheese" to any sort of craving -- food or otherwise. I refuse to take this sickness into a Monday morning.
Around 2 p.m. on Friday, I start seeing everything covered in confetti. The mood is light. Everything is funny. I should go out tonight. The streets will be teeming with chaos. Observed chaos is as crucial as inhaling.
"What are you doing tonight?" I'll ask JCrew.
"Meh, I need to do laundry. I can't go out," she'll say. What this means is that she has no intention of wearing pants. When I imagine JCrew at home alone, I imagine her sitting pantless on tan carpet, trashy television on in the background, a glass of wine in the foreground. She knows how to live.
She's totally right. It's a good night for an antisocial retreat.
"I kinda want to go out," my mood shifts around 6 p.m. It's so rare that I actually blow dry my hair and wear a cute shirt. It's sounds exotic and appealing. Like role playing within my own gender designation.
Here JCrew bends a bit. She's not opposed to a cold drink in a dark bar. "Call me if you decide to go out," she'll concede.
If it were socially acceptable, I'd find a way to slip out of my jeans in the car. As is, I waste critical leisure time debelting, unbuttoning, and yanking in those first few minutes when I've entered our home. Seeing Chuck always makes me want to stay home. Going out is really only super fun when he goes out, too. But he works on weekends. And sending him frequent, misspelled text messages filled with exclamation points and vague phraseology is never as much fun as having him there.
Home it is.
Then something will happen, like this weekend. Whiskey Marie was in town. Now that is a good reason to go out. That gives me permission slip to take a ride in Wyld City, and a person to blame for my unmoderated shenanigans. I text JCrew with the info. She sounds a little more interested.
Although, here I sit in sweatpants.
It's fun to go out, see people, cut loose.
I hate playing invalid all day on Saturday.
I just got this super cute shirt I want to wear. Prove to people that sometimes I wear things that have been laundered.
I don't want puffy beer face. I'm sick of that. And drinking is going to make me want to order pizza on Saturday, which means puffy beer face plus puffy pizza face.
There really is nothing on TV, and precious little saved in TiVo.
I could write a review of Mary Karr's "Lit" if I stay in.
A beer would be pretty dang good.
Ultimately, it came down to this: If I stay home, I can drink that delicious oolong tea we have. The whole lemon, sugar cubs, tea-drinking scene. And we probably have the ingredients to make sugar cookies. I could listen to music; stare at the Internet until one of us blinks.
*I will occasionally go out on a Wednesday night, but only if I'm not expected anywhere at all on Thursday.