The Real Tragedy

I'm still trying to come to terms with the fact that, as an adult, my bedroom is no longer a place to play and/or hang out.

(Irrelevant note: I also struggle with a lasting temptation to invite people over to "play" instead of "hang out".)

It pains me, ever-so-slightly, that the bedroom I meticulously organize and maintain will rarely, if ever, be seen by my friends. I've noticed, when giving "tours" around my apartment, that people are willing to take only a couple of steps into the room before tossing out a light compliment and booking it for the hallway.

I can only suppose that the reason for this is a silently- but generally-accepted recognition that the bedroom of an adult (and especially an adult living with a significant other) is a place for Private Things. Perhaps visitors fear that if they spend too much time in the bedroom of an acquaintance the seedy romance novels, vibrators and leather harnesses tucked away in drawers and dark corners will reveal themselves. After that, let's face it, there's no turning back. Better just to make your exit to the more neutral living room. Because only family-friendly activities take place in living rooms, right?

Anyway. That's just a theory.

Living rooms suck, though. Nothing beats stretching out on a bed with your best friend to talk for hours. My entire adolescence - from childhood up to the end of my undergraduate career - is dotted with afternoons and evenings spent this way. And I miss it.

So there it is: reason no. 2907 that growing up sucks a big one. Let's turn this one around, ok? Get back on in my bedroom, folks. That's where it's at.

Swing/Miss

It's like when you're not paying attention and the last step you think you're taking down a flight of stairs turns out to be nothing but the flat ground ahead of you.

In between loving a very contrary man and working a job where I play the part of the bad guy (short summary: I email out the equivalent of homework assignments to all the higher-ups in my work place, and I'm pretty sure that they all die a little bit inside when they see my name in their inboxes) I expect to be told 'no' - though rarely in so many words - more often than not.

Sometimes, though, people comply. I'm not sure what's in the water, but it's been happening recently. After all that energy, all that buildup to the big let-down, my bat flies through the air and there's nothing to make purchase with. Just the whiffle echoing in my ears, then I'm left standing, baffled.

Pleased.

The Fear

This year (I'm talking past-12-months year, not calendar year) has really been, as we say in The Business, a "doozy". As I am someone who A.) grew up privileged in WhiteBread USA and B.) is only recently emerged as a financially independent adult, perhaps you can see how a year that involved one attempted and one successful apartment break-in, one positive pap smear, a couple of months spent suffering spectacular medicinal side-effects, two emergency root canals followed by countless oral housecleanings, two freak-accident occurrences that left my car's front bumper detached on both sides and myriad miscellaneous odds and ends has left me a little wary.

There's really nothing I can do without worrying about how it will affect my teeth in six months or whether my apartment will still be un-molested if I leave the deadbolt unlocked while I'm gone for five minutes. I am on emergency stand-by 24/7.

I spent one heady summer, when I moved into my first apartment (the one that got robbed, which I no longer inhabit), riding around the neighborhood on my bike. I would go for miles and miles, from one neighborhood to another, watching as the houses changed from ramshackle burnouts to beautifully restored family homes. On my ride to work (which was down the street) I passed more than one person who sat on their porch talking to themselves on a daily basis, but I loved it anyway. I knew where each and every one of the crazies lived and I felt like I owned the place.

Now, in my new apartment, which backs up to a quiet, middle-class neighborhood full of ranch-style houses, I hesitate to go out walking for fear of...I don't even know what; adorable puppy attack, I guess. Today, unable to defy the allure of beautiful weather, I found myself out, traipsing (a.k.a. speed walking for exercise) around; and while I took the liberty of exploring a few nooks and crannies, I still checked over my shoulder time and again when I heard the keys in my fanny pack (yeah, I wear a fanny pack when I exercise...suck it) jingling.

It's just...sucks, you know? It's a real tribute to how happy I am in my relationship and with my life in general that I'm not pulling my hair out screaming because some other ridiculous thing has gone wrong and ended up costing me $800 out of the blue.

The more this shit goes down, the more that I realize that me and my meager salary are more-or-less alone in this big blue world, the more fortunate I feel, in an under-this-steaming-pile-of-crap-there's-actually-a-beautiful-shining-pearl sort of way. There's a whole load of stuff that was given to me in life - the very fact that I have emerged from my undergraduate college career without a penny of personal debt says that I've got something that precious few others my age have placed in their lap - and I'm just...fortunate. There's no other way to say it.

So I'm not sure all this lousy stuff going down is just my share of shittiness coming due or what, but I'm still thinking I'll muddle through alright. Already I have renter's insurance and live in a neighborhood that's not addled with gangs; I've also got one clear Pap smear (and one more to go until I'm in the clear...God, there's nothing so pleasing as going to the gynecologist every six months), a birth control that doesn't make me feel like barfing 24/7, at least one side of my mouth that's not rotting out and some insurance money on the way to help with the car troubles.

And so to Life I say, it could be worse. But I better not see you try.

Your Mission

As it turns out, there's some pretty great ways to freak the hell out of your boyfriend. There's a couple of things you have to get into place first, though, before you can execute them.

First, it helps if you live together. At the very least, you should be sleeping together on a regular basis.

Second, it helps if the time is somewhere in the nether regions of the day, say, 3:00 or 5:30 a.m. The ungodlier the better.

Now.

What you do, is you, the lady, fall asleep around midnight, like a reasonable person ought to. Then, when your beau comes to bed at the ungodly hour of his choice, you roll over and say to him, all groggy-like, "I'm gonna pee."

Then.

You wait.

The longer the better.

Your boyfriend will, undoubtedly, be distressed as the minutes pass by. He will wonder if he should wake you and remind you of the task at hand, if he should check for a wet spot or if, perhaps, he should just let you be.

Later, when he's drifting off while trying to make the right choice, steal clumsily away from the bed. Be sure to bump into some walls on the way to the bathroom and make a general ruckus.

Then, finally, pee.

Operation complete.