At some point in the not-too-distant past, I've become an old fuddy-duddy, it would seem. I might not have really realized it, had Macho Man not broken up with his girlfriend recently.
When he told me they broke up, I knew what was coming -- the weeknight texts at like, 9:00 saying, "Party?" Or the occasional earlier asking, "Happy hour?" I've turned down two of these in less than a week. What happened to me?
A couple of years ago, when I was working at a job where I fucked around on the Interwebs for eight hours, there was no problem with going out on weeknights. I did it all the damn time. Now, though, I work a job that requires me to ... well, work. This precludes much going out on school nights. Boo. There's also my love of routine that seems to have really become a part of my life in the last couple of years, too.
I mean, how could I go out tonight when I had to go to the gym, come home to cook, wash dishes, watch the Twins, shower and blog? Seriously, though, when I got the "Party?" text, I had just finished whipping up a stir fry with a good number of my CSA haul from the past week, I hadn't showered and there were dishes to do.
Ach. This is my life, isn't it? The good news is, I'm fairly content with it.