I can go for weeks without seeing anyone but coworkers and T.
I’m pretty boring, really.
Can I help it that I’m not interesting in playing drinking games and getting trashed?
Or that I decided long ago I couldn’t be effed with fake friends and don’t get invited to parties?
I almost wish I had moved to a different city, heck, country, even, so I’d have an excuse not to have much of a social life.
Right now, about the most regular thing on my calendar is weekly pub quiz with a team from work. And you know what – I like it that way.
I like being able to come home, relax, cook, read or blog or do freelance work, before getting to bed at a decent hour.
I like having my odd days off to myself, to sleep in, to run, play guitar, read the news, clean the house, buy fresh produce from the corner shop, bake, take photos. Like Shopaholly writes, even though this doesn’t sound like much, sometimes it feels like there are never enough hours. And I’m not even counting the really boring things, like clipping your nails or scrubbing the oven or making the effort to rub rosehip oil into your pigmented scars.
I like my relatively quiet, peaceful life. This is what relaxes, recharges and fulfils me.
And I’m not going to apologise for it.