In defense of being boring.

I had plans for tonight, plans that I had made weeks ago. I was going to go dancing – if not at the ’60s-’70s Soul Night dance party then at the ’80s dance party. There was also an art walk going on, as well as a men-in-drag baseball game benefit. Or, of course, head to the
bar and see some friends.

But instead, I did nothing. I mean, really nothing: I drank umpteen cups of tea, played on the internet, knit, and watched marathon sessions of Prime Suspect (what is with Netflix only offering every other season? Because who would want to actually see a case come to a conclusion?). I had some valid excuses for staying home that I gave friends – long work day, I need to get ready for a work trip next week, general first-day-of-my-period exhaustion – but the true reason was … I just didn’t wanna. I could have pushed myself past all those reasons, but I knew that I wouldn’t really be present for whatever I did; I would just be watching the clock until it was a good time to head home and drink tea, knit, and watch British detective shows.

I used to feel bad about these anti-social, boring impulses. I’m young!
I should want to go out until all hours and have endless energy for all things social! But the fact of the matter is I have never been that person. I was the kid who preferred to read a book alone rather than play outside with the other kids. I’d usually get bored at college parties after a few hours and be the person who would actually stop drinking so I could sober up faster and drive myself home. I do like going out and being with others sometimes, just not all the time.

Call it being anti-social or introverted, but all I know is sometimes a gigantic mug of hot tea and Helen Mirrin being a bad-ass is all I need for a good night.


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