Good Egg
On being at home, at the bar, and elsewhere
Every time I do laundry I’m reminded I need to get out more. In the warm pile on my bed, the ratio of outside to inside clothes makes a fool of me and my homebody lifestyle. XL tees, threadbare pajama shorts, socks. This week I drape a linen blouse over the drying rack like it’s a precious relic, proof I am in fact capable of dressing for a life that exists outside my apartment.
On Friday I tell my therapist I fear I could easily become a recluse. I work from home, which I love, but if I’m not careful, weeks will go by without straying beyond a six block radius. I’m envious of people with busy calendars, but at the same time, the thought of not getting at least 8 hours and plenty of non-verbal alone time sounds terrible.
When I picked up a waitressing job last summer, it was because I needed the money, but less obvious was that I also needed the human interaction. It’s the first time I’ve regularly had somewhere to be since I stopped working an office job. Instead of spending more evenings on my couch, I move between tables until my feet are sore and deliver drinks with a smile I don’t even have to fake. But over time, it’s occurred to me that simply being around people isn’t the same as participating. I’ve developed a habit of slipping out as soon as my last tables are paid and my side work is complete, and I’ve only claimed a shift drink a small handful of times, whereas my coworkers seem to regularly linger long after close.
Out of FOMO or peer pressure or a rare spontaneous impulse — I’m not sure which — one night I decide to join them. I ask the bartender for one of our signature cocktails, which has ingredients in it that I don’t know, despite it being my job to know them. One drink becomes a few, and as I sip, I silently thank myself for the late coffee which works hard to prevent me from becoming sleepy. We proceed to another bar, and shortly after that, I recognize I’m drunk, my tolerance equivalent to a 9th grader’s. I calmly walk myself to the bathroom, where I chug water from a sink that probably hasn’t been cleaned in years.
When I return, there’s a beer waiting for me and my shyness evaporates. At one point, the group tells me something with a straight face that I believe completely, the alcohol rendering me gullible, and in the following days, I realize it was a prank and feel an embarrassed pit in my stomach. I look at my phone and see it’s 3 am, a time I’m only ever awake for if there’s a plane to catch. I beeline out of the bar, probably Irish goodbye-ing, stumbling home on autopilot. When I barge through the door, my cats look at me like I’m an alien, watching me strip naked and haphazardly rub my face with a makeup wipe.
I hadn’t eaten a proper dinner, no doubt a factor in my drunkenness, my sole source of protein being a bite of a pickled egg at the bar, and I only remember eating it when, the following week, my coworker reminds me of the experience. I wince. She assures me it’s a good egg, she’s had that egg many times, and somehow that makes me feel better.
After that night, I wake up dizzy but satisfied. I go down to the bodega and get a turkey sandwich with potato chips and a Coke, my old hangover order, hoping it will make me feel normal again (it doesn’t). I spend the rest of the day in the cocoon of my apartment, but instead of vowing to never do that again, I accept my losses. The night cost me a decent Saturday and a bit of dignity, but by afternoon, I’m mostly okay with this trade. I’m probably never going to be the kind of person who isn’t already thinking about going home while they’re still out, but I decide it then that it can be beneficial for the soul to occasionally try. To stay out of your apartment long enough to miss it. To remember you can hold a conversation in a booth, even if in the end, you’re the butt of the joke.
The life I’m building delights me daily. I love my routines, my small circle, my cozy home. Some days, I don’t talk to anyone, unless you count my cats, until Axel gets home after 7, and this is by design. But I’m glad I still get the itch for more exciting experiences. It can be good to fight against the gravitational pull of your comfort zone. To say yes, show up, do something that surprises you. I think that’s what I’ve been craving. Not exactly a busier life, but one where I’m more of an active participant.
The other night, Axel and I went out to dinner, and I kept repeating how good a time I was having. “Every few months you remember you like to go out places,” he teased. I agreed, and we laughed, and we walked around the West Village without rushing home.
The next day, I bought another blouse.
Sincerely,
Salena
name drop ☺️
such an interesting read, i felt like a fly on the wall. as a homebody, i get it, it’s hard to push yourself to go out and do things. especially when it ends in drunkenness and you’re rehabilitating the next day. like u said, at least you tried ! sometimes just pushing yourself to get dressed cute and socialize and experience life is the point. & even better when those activities you find outside of home are wholesome<3🥰