Friday, January 6

The No-Fun Zone

That, right there up above, perfectly describes my mindset at the end of a long week.

I think that phrase was coined when Kyle told me long ago that I made his life a no-fun zone, but I'm sure I think he was joking -- and even if he wasn't, he did put a ring on my no-fun finger, after all, so he must secretly enjoy a boring life.

I have zero interest in going out to bars most Friday nights, and approximately 2% interest in going to happy hour. I want to go home, put on sweatpants, make Pad Thai, and watch five episodes of Say Yes to the Dress or One Born Every Minute -- that is my idea of a great way to kick off the weekend. Perhaps on Saturday I'll be thrilled to go out (probably not)... but Fridays?

No thank you.

I want to leave the office at 4:30 5:00 on the dot, drive straight home, get comfy right away, and pour myself a glass of wine.

Unfortunately -- and this still shocks me sometimes -- you can't always get what you want. And what am I getting?

Between last week and this week, I'm getting back to back Fridays at the bar.

As a side note: Kyle claims that my nostrils flare when I'm irritated (whyyyyyy do I publicly shame myself by admitting these things on the internet?)

So let me tell you now... if Kyle tries to talk me into staying at the bar one minute past 7 PM tonight, yea and verily, there shall be a great and terrible flare.

Last weekend, we went out to a place in Shadyside with several of Kyle's college friends who were in from out of town (did I already write about this? I don't know, too tired to go look it up). It was actually lots of fun up until around 1:30 AM, because let's be honest here for a minute -- once you're out of college and working full-time, is it really that fun to be at a random bar on a regular Friday night after midnight?

"No" is the answer I think you're looking for. You just want to go home and lay your pounding head down on your sweet, soft pillow.

Unless you're my "non-stop-fun" husband, of course, because Kyle likes to talk at bars, and the later the night gets, the chattier he becomes. He is hardly ever chatting with our friends at this point, in fact -- he's talking football with the 60-year-old man further down the bar. And he really, really wants to stay and finish the conversation. And I end up (falsely) looking like the overbearing wife, tugging on his sleeve and shooting this poor innocent stranger dirty looks as I attempt to flee the drunken masses and be in bed before 3 AM.

Tonight, I'm headed to the restaurant at the bottom of my office building (it's ginormous, yinz, there are 62 floors in this skyscraper) for a farewell happy-hour celebrating one of Kyle's coworkers who is leaving for a new job. I'm suspicious that there might be one next Friday as well, this time in his honor, though I'm hoping he can leave unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

Not really. Well, maybe. I just don't want to go out for a third Friday in a row, because that's just getting ridiculous.

Am I right, or am I right? Or am I wrong?

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