I woke up this morning at 5ish. I taught a class until 10ish. I ate lunch. I tried to finish a schedule, but ended up checking out a cute guy most of the afternoon.
And then home.
Thing is - I considered calling some friends and seeing if they wanted to meet for a drink and then I thought - "But I can't wear my yoga pants to the bar..."
Thus ended the debate and my car auto-piloted itself to my abode.
When did I turn into such an old freakin' lady?
I used to be young and peppy and always game for a laugh or a cocktail. Now I bolt out of work, scramble up the three flights of stairs, change into stretchy fabric clothing items and perform a variety of housekeeping chores followed by on-line or cable entertainment. Then bed.
And it's not like I'm all sad to go to bed, like when you're a kid. Oh no, I'm all "Is it bedtime YET?!?!" I freaking LOVE bedtime. In fact, as I type this I'm wondering if it's too early to climb into bed.
Dear lord, get me a walker and some Polydent already. Looks like 35 is the new 95.
Poop.
2 comments:
You've been a notorious bailer since I met you, but at least you were out enjoying some night life. Is this what it has come to? For shame!
I suppose that's what happens when you pack 95 years of living into 35.
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