Getting old

I'm twenty-seven, and not exactly over-the-hill. Still, when Friday night hits I have the following dominant thoughts: I can't wait to go home and sit in front of the television. Then I can sleep. That will be nice.

I realize how pitiful and sad that sounds. I also occasionally feel pitiful and sad for indulging my Friday night laziness. Last night, for example, I decided to meet some friends from school at a bar downtown after work. On the train ride back to the city, I started to feel the lazy creep in, but I resisted valiantly. I was determined to be young and fun. I got off the train and quickly made my way to the downtown express subway platform. I waited with what was a rapidly increasing number of other commuters. Five minutes went by...then fifteen...then twenty. At twenty-five minutes, I cracked. All the stress and frustration of my work week barreled down on me at warp speed, and I had one of those moments where I just could not be in a crowded place. I was hot, tired, bitter and feeling slightly claustrophobic.

Turning abruptly, I bobbed and weaved through the crowd like George Costanza playing Frogger. I crossed over to the uptown platform to go home, when (of course) the downtown train came roaring toward the station. The fates took pity on me and the uptown train followed a few moments later. I rode the train to 59th Street, and went to the only place that I knew could calm me down after a long, poorly-ended week: Bloomingdales. My usual sitting in front of the t.v. with takeout leftovers was followed by beautiful, sweet, perfect sleep. Ahhhhhh.