Saturday night, 7:45 pm. My hair was still wet from the shower and I was standing in the kitchen in my leopard-print slippers and a hoodie while hand-mixing flour and butter for tortillas and singing Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright” loudly and probably completely out of tune.
And I was happy.
And suddenly I started thinking about how different my life is now than it was three years ago. Not just for the obvious reasons. But also because three years ago, on a Saturday night, I would have been out somewhere with friends drinking beers and smoking cigarettes and taking shots of Jameson.
And though I miss those nights, because they were fun, I’m perfectly happy being at home making tortillas on a Saturday night.
I guess, at age thirty-seven, I’m finally starting to become an adult. This kind of scares me because I have absolutely no idea how to be an adult. And then I had this epiphany.
No one on Earth has any idea how to be an adult. Everyone is doing it for the first time ever.
And that thought is actually pretty darn terrifying.
None of us really know what we’re doing.
Then, this morning, while making brown sugar pancakes topped with candied walnuts for breakfast (cuz we like to watch our diets on Sundays) I was dancing around the kitchen to my three favorite happy songs ever and I realized that “adulthood” is an arbitrary thing.
My three favorite happy songs ever….in this order.
- Michael Jackson-Will You Be There
- George Michael-Father Figure
- Madonna-Like A Prayer
If you are ever having a bad day, at least just put on “Will You Be There” and dance. Is it going to fix all your problems? No, of course not. But I guarantee it will make you smile and make you feel really good for those 3 minutes and 40 seconds.
Can’t dance? Don’t worry about it. Neither can I. I can’t sing either. But I do both with pride. At least when there’s no one around to laugh at me but Tom, and he’s allowed to laugh at me all he wants because I laugh at him all the time.
The other night he lost a bet and had to go into the store to get us Crunchie bars wearing nothing but his track pants and robe ala The Dude.
*side note* If you don’t know what I’m talking about when I say “the Dude” stop reading this blog RIGHT NOW and go watch the Big Lebowski. Seriously…get outta here…you have way more important things to do.
Before Tom got out of the car I kept pulling the robe open and telling him it didn’t count if he wasn’t showing a nipple but the spoil sport closed the robe up before he walked inside which I found highly disappointing.
But then he came out of the store a few minutes later with our Crunchie bars looking somewhat embarrassed and said the cashier wouldn’t even make eye contact with him and the lady behind him wouldn’t STOP looking at him and wouldn’t let go of her kid’s hand.
So it didn’t really matter that he covered up his nipples.
A nicer and more mature person would have felt bad for him but I just laughed and laughed.
I make a freakin’ GREAT adult.
I finally got a Twitter account. I really didn’t want to because I don’t give a rats furry patootie about celebrities and I don’t want to read tweets from the Trump or those Kardashian chicks. But I had to get Twitter because it’s another way to promote my blog.
You know what else it is? Another way to waste away hours looking at cute cat pictures and videos.
Again….great adult over here.
Ciao, my loves.