Friends, most of you know that I am not a night person, nor even really an evening one. My ideal dinner time is 5 p.m., with bed around 8 p.m. If I can’t adhere to this schedule, let’s just say I degrade rapidly. And if sleep deprivation is already in the house, well, god help you all.
Such was the case recently when I headed over to a fancy steak restaurant with my sisters-in-law to celebrate one of their milestone birthdays. I’d slept terribly and was running on cheese sticks and willpower when I showed up for the 6:30 reservation. We had to wait another 20 minutes to be seated before receiving notably slow service and didn’t place our orders until 7:30. Seven. Freaking. Thirty. Can you feel my pain? See preferred timeline above.
I could sense myself becoming more withdrawn from the conversation, falling into a familiar flight or fight space where I’m trying to calm my panic and figure out a polite way to bail. Should I tell the truth and leave? Is that rude? Should I suck it up and persevere? It’s her birthday! Ugh. Oh, lord, what if they want dessert?
Ultimately, I pulled it together and stayed to split the check. But the lateness of the meal and the day was simply too much. I stomped into the house at 9:30, growled at my husband, Doo, and grumpily hit the sack, wearing full-eye makeup and a cloak of bitterness.
Anyhoo, this is why I’d rather eat an afternoon frozen pizza on the couch and then make my way to bed before dark. Everyone’s happy, no one gets hurt.
Peace out.
