Hermit Buddy
Here are the top five things I remember thinking and can’t believe I actually used to think that:
- Why would you go out before eleven p.m.? Nothing fun happens until then.
- If I can just get three hours sleep, that will be fine.
- No worries. I can sleep anywhere – the couch, the floor, whatever.
- Come on! It’s Saturday night! We can’t just stay home!
- I’m not ready to go home. Let’s go to Waffle House — it’s still open.
I think you’ll notice a prevailing theme. I used to go out and do stuff, and going out and doing stuff and being with my friends was a priority over creature comforts and bodily functions like sleep. I used to go places. I visited friends and family all over the world. I learned to scuba dive in a foreign country. I’ve ridden in helicopters and seen a lot of great bands in concert.
Now? If I’m out of bed after ten p.m. it’s a wild night. My idea of the perfect Saturday night is at home in my pj’s[1] petting my dog.
I guess that’s part of getting older. Alcohol in any quantity gives me heartburn. 22-year-old me would be aghast.
Now, but for the fact that I have a job and friends that won’t let me, I’m more or less a hermit. If you see me somewhere outside of the house or office, you need to be honored that I went. That doesn’t happen often, especially if it requires me to drive at night[2]. My husband is worse than me. I’m writing this on a Monday, and according to Life 360 he hasn’t left the house since Tuesday last week, and that only because he had a doctor’s appointment. I used to call him sweetie and darling and any number of pet names. Now? I call him my hermit buddy.ul
I like having a hermit buddy. I’ve been romanced, I’ve been out to the club, I’ve gone bar hopping. Been there, done that, not terribly interested in doing it again. I’ve reached a point where I’m happy to be unadulterated me with a person who doesn’t seem to notice if I’m wearing an evening gown or flannel pants; a face full of makeup or none at all. Loud places irritate me. Crowds make me crazy. I like sleeping. I like laying around in bed when I awaken, processing my dreams and organizing my thoughts. I like going to bed knowing I have at least eight hours before I have to get out of it.
So, call me boring if you wish. I have a half-century of stories that say otherwise, and a half-century of wisdom that allows me not to care what you think. I’ll be at home with my hermit buddy, petting my dog and/or reading a book, maybe knitting a scarf, and you can just go on with your bad self, doing whatever. You’ll get here. And when you do, I hope you have a buddy. If not, I’ll be your buddy, but I’m still not leaving my house.
[1] Ideally, the same pj’s I put on Friday night after work because nothing I did all day on Saturday required me to get dressed.
[2] I don’t see so great at night. I can drive at night, but it requires so much concentration and sticking to the main, well-lit drag, that I go out of my way not to.
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