Monday, August 26

A Great Weekend, But Not In All The Ways You'd Think (Alternate Title: There Are No Lemon Ricotta Pancakes Here)

I'm not the type of girl to post pictures of homemade pancakes and sun-drenched park benches and brag about how beautiful the weekends are, but I'm not gonna lie: this one was kind of unexpectedly boss. Marlow & Sons late-night steak after peeping a Noah Kalina exhibit, trains far far uptown and cab rides through greenery, the most ridiculous bra shop I've been to and the first meal that's ever made me full — it was quite a something. I've been out of town for what feels like an eternity, and somewhere between getting everything on my to do list accomplished and wandering around the upper park-lined portions of the island two days in a row, I finally had one of those wonderful, euphoric New York two-days, with the perfect pairing of doing those three loads of laundry I'd been avoiding and mega-chilling. Granted, I did stand on a street corner and sob about how much my birth control now costs — $60 a month, up from zero?! — but as everyone keeps telling me, it's still cheaper than having a baby. (I continue to argue that if you sell it to another adoptive family it'll pay for eons of multi-colored pill packs, but alas.)

While I'm currently one vehicle short of dashing up to Canada to get black market zygote-killers, I keep dreamily thinking back to how great the past few days were and why. In truth, I didn't do anything that special — Saturday night consisted of eating a taco salad while watching four consecutive hours of The Big Bang Theory — but it ruled. What is it about getting chores done (and doing whatever the fuck you want) that makes you feel so accomplished? Sure, not everyone's dream weekend includes buying ridiculous matching floral hats during a four hour spaced-out stroll through the Upper West Side with your fourth grade bestie or going for your very first run in the park, but that's what's so unexpectedly great about this one in particular.

Part of it may be because I'm now cooped up during the daytime, sure, but it's not like I ate breakfast at a farm-to-table Brooklyn compound and had a coffee at a place with a cute chalkboard outside of it like Instagram tells me I should on all days beginning with "S". (I did not play Weekend Bingo, so to speak.) But, mostly, I think what I'm feeling is that I've always tended to live my life by measuring my wants and hopes against everyone else's, and finally don't anymore. Going to bars because it's what people do, dressing up because it's what's expected, drinking cocktails after cocktail just because it's the weekend. Lately, though? I don't give a bag of fucks. I'm on my path from '20s "i want to make people happy!" to '30s "fuck its", and if plans involve me standing in a dark bar for more than fifteen minutes or tossing back vodka sodas for hours on end because that's what we're doing tonight, I'm not taking part.

Call me a lamewad now, call me a hypocrite later, but either way: I'm kind of done with all of it. I don't need a $24 brunch to make a morning great, nor do I need to wake up with a cloud for a brain because going home early would have been lamembarrassing. Apparently for me, a fun weekend is now getting an obscene amount of exercise, buying old lady bras and putting on a flowered cap that makes me feel like a 65-year-old Jewish male director on his off day. And hey, if the geriatric lifestyle is what's working for me, at least I still got it. (Fingers crossed the incontinence doesn't follow suit.)

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