I’m sitting at the kitchen counter with earphones listening to New Age Affirmations about getting shit done and getting said shit done in such a way you’ll be a millionaire in a week.
The Boyfriend is on the couch watching X-Men and drinking Gatorade.
Who says the romance has to die?
I met The Boyfriend and two other couples at a Mexican restaurant last night. The Boyfriend had spent the day on his snow machine and I had spent the day this way. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere and since I’m not drinking or eating anything fun, the idea of going out wasn’t exactly appealing. However, I genuinely like the other couples and knew that most likely The Boyfriend was a little
drunk tipsy HAPPY and would need a ride home anyway.
When you’re sober and at dinner with five people who have all went to school together you will learn a lot about people you do not know and most likely will never meet. Also, you’re pretty much left out of a lot of conversations because you’re sober and don’t have that “I have no idea what you guys are talking about, but I’m going to pretend I do” mechanism. When I’m a little tipsy, I will interject myself into a conversation or move it around so that we’re not talking about who said what in second period Biology or OMG that slut in fifth period English tried to make out with so-in-so at that other so-in so’s birthday party. You see, if I’m lit enough, I could probably have them believe I was that slut in fifth period English class. (Okay, more likely it would be me believing it. It’s whatevs.)
It was a great time and I probably smiled and even laughed for the first time all day. The best part of the night was when we got home and The Boyfriend accused me of giving him FAKE water.
“This water is FAAAAKE. Fake like Fake News. FAAAAAKE.” And then he passed out.
So. Not. Dead.
Daily, I examine my face…something I’ve been doing since I was
thirty-five three years old. Now that I’m forty…I don’t just do it in the mornings or at night…I do it about twenty times a day. Yes, this could be considered vanity…or just straight up narcississm…but I’m obsessed with wrinkles. I’m obsessed in the sense of, “I do not want wrinkles.”
Anyway, this morning I noticed something peculiar about my eyelids. They seemed to have developed flaps.
This is puzzling to me because last night when I went to bed? There were no flaps on said eyelids.
I started to think of every famous person that is still considered attractive who have flaps on their eyelids. Surprisingly, there are none. Then I did a google search and all I could find were eyelids with skin tags. These flaps are NOT skin tags. Maybe flaps is the wrong word? Perhaps you’re imagining I’ve grown bird wings on my eyelids because of my lack of adjectives to properly describe what has happened to my eyelids.
The Boyfriend says he doesn’t see anything different with my eyelids. I still see flaps…but they’re not as predominant as they were this morning. Is it because I’ve accepted the fact that I have flaps on my eyelids or was it all in my imagination?
Or- and this is highly probable-it could be fake? My imagination and paranoia getting the best of me?
Fake Flaps on Eyelids. Like Fake News or…wait for it…
This post has been brought to you by four days of sobriety, two months of unemployment, nine seasons of The Office, This is Us withdrawals, The Boyfriend’s fun drunk verbiage and my flannel nightgown worn at 4:26pm on a Sunday.