little black journal

Shane and I are often told by people with children that we should savor every minute of this phase of life that we’re in.  And I know that it’s true – there is lots of freedom that comes with this dual-income, kid-free thing we’ve got goin’ on.  We can go out for a fancy dinner at a moment’s notice, we can stay out late drinking cocktails and seeing shows, we can jet out of town when we’re feeling antsy.  And yet, many nights I can’t think of anything I want to do more than put on my pajamas and hole up at home with a glass of wine and a good book or movie.  Tonight was a classic case in point:  we at least ventured out of the house to stuff ourselves at our neighborhood burger joint, but we were home by 7:30, I was in my sweats by 7:35, and my nest of blankets and pillows had been properly arranged on the couch by 7:40 for the optimal Giants-viewing experience.  I haven’t really gotten up since then, except to do a little drawing and brew a cup of tea.  And to give Buster Posey an air high-five for that homer he just hit.

Call me boring.  Call me a homebody.  Call me the 75 year-old trapped in the 30 year-old’s body.  But hot damn, this was my kind of Friday night.