I went to the grocery store and bought a pine scented candle and couldn’t wait to get home and light it. It was the highlight of my day, and I don’t care if that makes me look like I need to go on more adventures and have more life experiences.
I’m a 45-year-old woman and I know myself by now — I’m happiest when I’m doing something simple, eating something simple, and in the company of people who get my love of fast food without any dipping sauces. I’m a ketchup girl through and through.
I’m the one who will show up to your gathering with onion dip made out of Lipton soup mix and sour cream, because I love that over any fancy little appetizer that takes hours and a million dollars to make.
I’m not here to be fancy, and I have no problem watching a cheesy rom-com over a documentary. Going to bed early and falling asleep to the Lifetime Channel is a happening Friday night for me. I decorate my home with Amazon and Target finds, and I don’t feel the need to keep up with anyone as far as trips, kids’ summer vacations, or the latest electronics.
I’ve always been this way — excited about making a banana smoothie with a new blender, looking forward all week to ordering pizza on Friday night, changing my sheets to flannel in the winter.
People have laughed at me and made fun of me (in the most loving way) for it. I’ve never longed to travel far and wide. I don’t crave adventure. I will never bungee jump, dive on a cliff into pink waters, or snorkel. I love my routines and I don’t have the slightest desire to learn another language.
There was a long time in my life when I felt self conscious for being so simple. It seemed like everyone around me wanted more, and I was happy to stop at the grocery store on the way home and try a new recipe.
Simple things delight me. They fill my soul. I have no desire to glow up my life in order to feel like I’m doing more. And I’m done apologizing for it.
You can keep your fruit-tini whatever the hell it is because I’m not a big drinker. Give me a Diet Coke and I’m just as happy as my sisters sipping on homemade mojitos or expensive champagne or drinks with cucumber and lavender squeezed into them.
A trip to Target does count as “me” time. I don’t need a day at the spa or to go have a whole weekend getaway to feel refreshed. I mean, those things are wonderful; don’t get me wrong. But I love taking a drive by myself, not being on anyone else’s time, and staring at the Christmas ornaments.
I’m not into fancy restaurants. I hate small plates, and everyone that knows me doesn’t even suggest I accompany them to such nonsense. I want to be fed and see all my food at the same time. I like free refills. I don’t care how well the pea shoots are displayed with that sliver of raw beef and a brown drizzle that resembles baby poo; pass me a burger with a large fry. Load it up with bacon and cheddar. I don’t care if it’s been aged for ten years in the cellar that also grows rare rose buds. Keep the pine nuts off my pizza. The only topping I want is extra cheese. Maybe some pepperoni if I need some meat. But I want no part of having root veggies, fruit, or aioli on my ‘za.
I buy my clothes from the establishment that has things I like. Sometimes that’s at Walmart and other times I’ll take a spin around Nordstrom. I don’t care about the label on the top if the top looks good on me.
I’m a no-name hoarder. Do you know how much money you can save when there isn’t a Nabisco or Kraft on the box? It’s a shit ton — I don’t care if it embarrasses my kiddos.
Fancy trips and all-inclusive resorts aren’t my thing. Sure, they’re fun and all, but I’m happy at a Hampton Inn with a hot tub, a fluffy towel, and a big television. I don’t need room service, chocolates under the pillow, or Eggs Benedict waiting at my door. I’d rather go to the drive-thru and pop off on a sausage egg and cheese any day.
I pass on the pricy manicures because I adore my press-ons. And guess what? You can do them at home watching your rom-com while eating your off-brand ice cream and have a hell of a good time.
I don’t use expensive products on my hair. I adore my Pantene. Also, I color it myself out of a box dye from the grocery store and feel just as good as I do when I go to the salon.
My dream day is to have a morning romp (quickies are my fav, let’s not get elaborate), go for a run, and listen to a crass podcast, then hit up a diner where the grease tastes delicious. After that, napping and mindless television are in order.
To some, I’m boring. I don’t care.
Other people have called me low-maintenance. That’s not the way to describe me either. I adore all the things you aren’t “supposed” to like such as The Golden Arches, soda in the morning versus fancy coffee, television that may make me lose a few IQ points, and cheap leggings.
All the messages like “live your best life” and “do the thing you are afraid to do” give us this sense we are supposed to be on fire at every turn. We are supposed to try new things all the time and we are downright boring and wrong for wanting to hit a chain pizza joint instead of trying the new place that serves sweet potato and ricotta pizza.
Sure, that’s all fine and good if being adventurous makes you happy, but for me, I’ll take the simple, non-trendy, never-glamorous things in life and be just fine. I mean, when Wendy’s came out with their pretzel bun, I went straight away to try it and the happiness I got from that trip lasted. It made me happier than that time I spent forty dollars on the fancy potato-and-endive thing at a new restaurant that opened in the city near me.
I’ve canceled plans so I could stay in my pajamas and move furniture around. And I’d rather chow down on some nachos with my girlfriends at our favorite Mexican place than go to a club or hike a mountain.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to binge watch Dawson’s Creek on my weekend without my kiddos and order my extra cheese pizza.
The post I’m Not Adventurous And I’m Done Apologizing For It appeared first on Scary Mommy.