My Bra Is Off. The Weekend Has Officially Begun.

I used to be fun.

Not regular fun.

Questionable fun.

Twenty-something-year-old me thought a weekend was wasted if I didn’t put on something mildly inappropriate, drink something neon-colored, flirt with someone I had absolutely no business flirting with, and stay out until an hour when respectable people were waking up to go fishing.

I was a disgrace.

But I was young and cute, so somehow it felt less like a cry for help and more like a personality.

And the most offensive part?

I could DO THAT and then just… wake up the next day.

That was it.

No electrolyte packet.

No ibuprofen.

No Googling “Can a hangover cause organ failure?”

I’d sleep four hours, wipe yesterday’s mascara out from underneath my eyes, eat something greasy at one of NJ's famous 24 hour diners (back then anyway) and carry on with my fucking life.

I hate to point this out, but that was almost THIRTY YEARS AGO.

I know.

I also just threw up in my mouth a little.

Because now I wake up completely sober after eight hours of sleep and sometimes my neck is like: “Absolutely not.”

Apparently I don’t even need alcohol anymore to feel hungover. I can injure myself unconscious.

But somewhere along the way, my definition of an amazing weekend completely changed.

These days, I want to get up Saturday morning, drink my coffee and absolutely attack the household responsibilities.

Laundry? Done.

Vacuuming? Done.

Bathroom? Done.

Kitchen? Clean.

It’s 11:06 AM and we have NOTHING LEFT TO DO?

LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

And by partying, I mean Jet and I are getting in the car with Cadence to go look at leaves in the fall.

Yes.

LEAVES.

This is who I am now.

I live in Vermont and willingly spend my free time driving around saying things like:

“LOOK AT THAT TREE.”

And Jet looks.

And then five minutes later:

“Oh my God, babe, LOOK AT THAT ONE.”

Another fucking tree.

Absolutely riveting.

Cadence is in the backseat wondering why these two idiots keep stopping to admire vegetation when there are perfectly good things to sniff and snacks that could be distributed.

And I am HAPPY.

Like genuinely, ridiculously happy.

Then Sunday rolls around and I want something delicious cooking for dinner. I want the house smelling amazing. I want comfy clothes on embarrassingly early.

And most importantly, I want to receive confirmation that nobody is coming over.

That sentence hits differently in your forties.

“No one is coming over today.”

Ohhhhh.

Say it again.

Slower.

Because I love people.

I really do.

But I love them so much more when they have no immediate plans to enter my home.

There is no greater threat to a peaceful Sunday than a text that begins:

“Whatcha guys doing today?”

Why?

What have you heard?

We have plans.

Serious plans.

There is a couch involved.

There are snacks. Lots of snacks.

There is probably a television series we discovered three days ago and have somehow already watched 46 episodes of.

We cannot be disturbed.

And somewhere in the middle of all this incredibly boring shit, I realized something:

I wouldn’t trade it.

Not for one night.

I don't miss wondering where the night will take me.

I know exactly where my night is taking me.

To the couch.

With the man I love.

My giant old Sugar Bear nearby.

A full belly from a dinner we enjoyed together.

Probably wearing pants with an elastic waistband (who the hell am I kidding, definately wearing an elastic waistband) and absolutely no intention of putting on a bra again until Monday morning.

And I think that's one of the funniest surprises about getting older.

You spend your younger years terrified of becoming “boring.”

Then one day you realize boring is fucking DELIGHTFUL.

Boring is safe.

Boring is comfortable.

Boring is laughing with your person over something completely stupid.

Boring is your dog snoring while you're trying to hear the TV.

Boring is looking around your home on a Sunday evening and realizing there's nowhere else you'd rather be.

Twenty-something-year-old me would probably be horrified by my weekend plans.

And that's okay.

She can stay out until 3 AM.

I hope she has a wonderful time.

Just tell her not to call me for a ride.

I'll be asleep.