On Monday night, Gary and I went to Earls for dinner, where I ate the most deliciously garlicky chicken caesar salad ever. It was really the perfect chicken caesar salad, crispy and fresh but stinky and tangy. Mmm. Garlic.
This is how I know I'm in a long-term relationship, people - I can eat the stinkiest salad ever, and still get into bed and snuggle up beside someone with no guilt.
I mean, I brushed my teeth and hit the Listerine, but still. No guilt! Amazing. Soon, we'll enter into that beloved sweat pants and no caring about our attractiveness phase!
Wait. Already there. Ooops.
Anyway, while we were at dinner it hit me that there were only a handful of days left in the year. In the DECADE.
I'm staring straight down the pipe into a fresh new decade and I feel...nothing. I mean, I was psyched for the start of the '90s. I was only 6, but my mom's Lady Fashion Magazines proclaimed loudly that the Woman of the '90s was independent, smart and fashionable.
The new millennium rocked my socks, and during the last decade I got my driver's license, went to Europe twice, graduated from high school and university, had four 'career' jobs, bought a brand new car and lived in a gazillion different apartments. I also suffered tremendous heartbreak, epic job failure, broken friendships, bouts of angsty depression and my hair started to turn this awesome silvery colour.
But I can't seem to get worked up for the '10s. While my assistant pointed out that the next ten years of my life are probably going to be the most exciting - the wedding, baby and family years, where I'll really hit home on that career thing and might even buy a home to raise said family in - it just doesn't seem monumental.
Because, honestly - everyone is walking around in leggings, inner-eyelid eyeliner and ripped plaid flannel. Bon Jovi will be here in July. It might as well be 1989 all over again.
2 days ago