Friday Night
I’m lying on my couch, feet propped up
on a furry red pillow at the other end. I have officially zoned out, eyes
glazed over, while whatever show is on does its thing. I’m not really listening
and actually don’t care. Thinking too much about my life is exhausting and I’m
done with it.
My roomie is on one of her ‘do something
and grab life by the horns’ tangents again, and I’m ignoring her. Again. Yes, I
know...the gospel according to Harlow decrees that I need a life. Yeah verily,
even so, amen. Knowing it and having a desire to do something about it are two
entirely different things.
Don’t get me wrong—I adore Harlow. Best
roommate ever. She pays her rent on time, doesn’t steal food from my side of
the fridge, and she wipes down counters like a Zippy Maids employee of the
month. If I spill a little coke on the floor, she even mops up the sticky
splatters that dry everywhere and attract all the dirt I miss when I put any
effort into cleaning. She graciously ignores my dirty clothes all over the
bathroom floor, and she always has something fun planned. She’s the life of the
party, so to speak, and I kind of won the roommate lottery when we found each
other. She def drew the short stick in this living situation. Despite all the
magnificence that is Harlow James (c’mon, the girl even has a rock star name),
I have a sneaking suspicion that I have become her latest project. The lecture
I’m hearing at the moment is my proof.
Harlow flicks at an invisible speck of
something imperfect on her perfectly manicured nails while she avoids looking
at me. Ah, here we are at her avoid eye contact phase of the lecture.
“...but you know, Lauren, whatever. I’m done. It’s your life; I can’t make you
go out and live it. If you want to lay on the couch in your sweats, watching
reality show reruns and smelling like you’re in desperate need of a shower, go
for it. It doesn’t hurt me any. My nostrils aren’t a fan of your plan, but like
I said. Whatevs.”
Ouch! I watch her walk casually away,
like she just innocently asked me to turn off the hall light or something. She
always gets me at this last phase of the lecture: walk away and make me
think . That shower jab kind of hurt, but as usual, she’s right. I hate it
when she’s right. I realize she’s washing dishes piled up in the sink, and
that’s the kicker. I have to get up. Those are my dishes spilling out of
the sink and onto the surrounding counter. She’s going for the jugular, using
my guilt against me. Girl knows how to play dirty.
With a sigh, I shove myself up and don’t
look back, knowing I probably left a permanent impression of my lazy booty
imprinted on the couch. I’ve been spending a lot of time there lately, basking
in the glow of finally finishing grad school...and marinating in the misery
that comes with the realization that I’m now unemployed and staring down the
barrel of a shotgun labeled ‘student loan payments.’
“You don’t have to do my dishes,” I tell
her, grabbing a half-scrubbed pot from her soapy hands.
“It’s no biggie,” she says airily,
trying to take it back.
I swing it out of her reach and use my
hip to bump her out of the space by the sink. “Yes, it is, lying liar pants.” I
claim my spot in front of the sink full of greasy orange bubbles, the sad
remains of my spaghetti from three nights ago. “So tell me more about
this....this thing you want me to do.”
Harlow dries her hands on the dish cloth
hanging from the handle of our ancient oven. She turns to hop up so she’s
sitting on the counter, facing me as I start scouring the pot I stole from her.
“Okay, so this will take one hour, total, of your life,” she responds, sounding
more excited than I’ve heard her in awhile. “You know my friend from work,
Michaela?”
“Friday night happy hour Michaela?” I
ask, rinsing the pot and letting it drop to the dish drainer with a clatter. I
grab my bacon pan from the pile
I’m lying on my couch, feet propped up
on a furry red pillow at the other end. I have officially zoned out, eyes
glazed over, while whatever show is on does its thing. I’m not really listening
and actually don’t care. Thinking too much about my life is exhausting and I’m
done with it.
My roomie is on one of her ‘do something
and grab life by the horns’ tangents again, and I’m ignoring her. Again. Yes, I
know...the gospel according to Harlow decrees that I need a life. Yeah verily,
even so, amen. Knowing it and having a desire to do something about it are two
entirely different things.
Don’t get me wrong—I adore Harlow. Best
roommate ever. She pays her rent on time, doesn’t steal food from my side of
the fridge, and she wipes down counters like a Zippy Maids employee of the
month. If I spill a little coke on the floor, she even mops up the sticky
splatters that dry everywhere and attract all the dirt I miss when I put any
effort into cleaning. She graciously ignores my dirty clothes all over the
bathroom floor, and she always has something fun planned. She’s the life of the
party, so to speak, and I kind of won the roommate lottery when we found each
other. She def drew the short stick in this living situation. Despite all the
magnificence that is Harlow James (c’mon, the girl even has a rock star name),
I have a sneaking suspicion that I have become her latest project. The lecture
I’m hearing at the moment is my proof.
Harlow flicks at an invisible speck of
something imperfect on her perfectly manicured nails while she avoids looking
at me. Ah, here we are at her avoid eye contact phase of the lecture.
“...but you know, Lauren, whatever. I’m done. It’s your life; I can’t make you
go out and live it. If you want to lay on the couch in your sweats, watching
reality show reruns and smelling like you’re in desperate need of a shower, go
for it. It doesn’t hurt me any. My nostrils aren’t a fan of your plan, but like
I said. Whatevs.”
Ouch! I watch her walk casually away,
like she just innocently asked me to turn off the hall light or something. She
always gets me at this last phase of the lecture: walk away and make me
think . That shower jab kind of hurt, but as usual, she’s right. I hate it
when she’s right. I realize she’s washing dishes piled up in the sink, and
that’s the kicker. I have to get up. Those are my dishes spilling out of
the sink and onto the surrounding counter. She’s going for the jugular, using
my guilt against me. Girl knows how to play dirty.
With a sigh, I shove myself up and don’t
look back, knowing I probably left a permanent impression of my lazy booty
imprinted on the couch. I’ve been spending a lot of time there lately, basking
in the glow of finally finishing grad school...and marinating in the misery
that comes with the realization that I’m now unemployed and staring down the
barrel of a shotgun labeled ‘student loan payments.’
“You don’t have to do my dishes,” I tell
her, grabbing a half-scrubbed pot from her soapy hands.
“It’s no biggie,” she says airily,
trying to take it back.
I swing it out of her reach and use my
hip to bump her out of the space by the sink. “Yes, it is, lying liar pants.” I
claim my spot in front of the sink full of greasy orange bubbles, the sad
remains of my spaghetti from three nights ago. “So tell me more about
this....this thing you want me to do.”
Harlow dries her hands on the dish cloth
hanging from the handle of our ancient oven. She turns to hop up so she’s
sitting on the counter, facing me as I start scouring the pot I stole from her.
“Okay, so this will take one hour, total, of your life,” she responds, sounding
more excited than I’ve heard her in awhile. “You know my friend from work,
Michaela?”
“Friday night happy hour Michaela?” I
ask, rinsing the pot and letting it drop to the dish drainer with a clatter. I
grab my bacon pan from the pile
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