what a drag it is...
Once upon a time, I'd spend Saturday nights dancing in heels so high they'd threaten to make me tipsier than the frou-frou drinks I actually was getting tipsy on, and when the drinks were through, I'd be awake until Sunday doing scandalous things with a scandalous man. The kind of things that would make my cheeks blush as crimson as the grenadine that had been splashed in my drinks.
This Saturday night, I gave my dog a bath, then vacuum packaged 10 pounds of ground beef to store away in my freezer (after calling three people to tell them what a great deal I'd gotten on it at the grocery store earlier in the afternoon), all while test driving these bad boys to see if I'd be able to tolerate wearing them while being on my feet 20+ hours week:
The only thing even slightly similar between my nights of then and now is the involvement of meat, where 'meat' isn't actually 'meat,' but more a metaphor meat. The latter me shouldn't even elude to that, though, because it's embarrassing. The former me wouldn't be embarrassed to say that, of course. The former me would have even giggled about it, tipsy on rum rollovers or not.
Once upon a time, I would have written about my past Saturday nights in a journal and relived them with a smile. This Saturday night, I'm posting a blog post, and in 10 minutes, I'll wake myself up when either my snoring gets so loud I scare myself or the book I started reading when I climbed into bed alone falls and smacks me in the nose.
I'd like to say that was the old me, but THIS is clearly the old me.