The other week, I bought a bag. A shoulder bag. You know, one of those things that normal people call a purse.1
The following week, I bought another one.
Now I have two “bags.” One is grey, and the other is brown. I can swap them out when I wear different-colored clothes. They have pockets, and zippers. This is huge for me, because up until now I have solely used backpacks and tote bags to carry my necessary items around.2 I feel like at last I can successfully pass as being cognizant of and knowledgeable in popular fashion. I feel like I felt in my mid-20s when I finally decided to toss those too-short and too-tight Forever Twelve shirts: I have crossed a new threshold. I have taken a considerable step towards growing up.3
But that’s old news, now. For tonight I finally did something I thought I’d never do. See, the beau had the gall to go to rugby practice, and as such he was physically incapable of cooking dinner. Usually I am able to clumsily muddle through nights such as this by relying on food items that can be prepared in the toaster oven, or simply eating shredded cheese straight from the bag. Trouble was that tonight I wanted fried eggs.
Fried eggs involve a pan. And flames. And some degree of timing and skill.
I’d tried to make a fried egg once, years ago. The end result was unpleasant, and largely inedible. But I was feeling pretty good this evening. My bag had totally coordinated with the outfit I wore to work, and I’d remembered to pick up paper towels at Costco. I’d recorded the Oregon/UCLA game, and I had even killed a spider. That’s some honor roll of achievements, right there. Plus, I mean, how many times had I watched the beau fry eggs? I had to at least give it a shot.
The first one was just sliiiiiightly underdone. The second one was perfect.
I know how to fry an egg. That means that if the beau ever gets me knocked up and then runs off with a waitress, my child will not grow up eggless and sad.
I think I’m doing it, you guys. I think I’m finally figuring out how to be an adult.
1 I have issues with certain words. Purse is one of them, as is panties, tummy, and potty.
2 The beau routinely leaves the house for work carrying nothing in his hands. Nothing. No lunch, no supplies, no freaking sweater even. I cannot fathom how he does this.
3 Next step: learn how to tolerate wearing pants. Then I should probably replace the missing wheel cover on my car. Then, start a retirement fund. And get a set of dishes that match. And move to a place that doesn’t have beer-stained carpeting.