“Plans this weekend?”
Booooooooo, Wendy! Boooooo! 😦
Making ‘plans.’ Doing ‘stuff.’ Just ‘getting out there!’ and ‘living-life-laugh-crying-emoji!!!’ Are all things I’d mostly prefer to really not if it’s an option. I already have to do ‘stuff’ all week, like wear pants outside of the house because I have job. Like a grownup. My weekends are for nothing. Really, really dedicated nothing. Professional-level nothing. I’ve spent so much money on video games that it’s completely illogical, nay negligent for me not to dedicate myself to them whenever I can. Games are ‘cost-per-play.’ The more time you put in, the more value you extract. I need cost efficient joy. Like a grownup.
“Plans this weekend?” though, was a completely acceptable question to ask during a long pause in conversation, which I worry happens more to me than most. Because my brain is potentially weirder than most, its immediate response is to think something forcefully awkward like:
Q: “Plans this weekend?”
A: “Stock piling arms for the coming revolution! Will you join my harem of wives?”/ “Quite contemplation of the sacrifice of our Lord and Savior.” *touches your arm* /*Simply smiles*, *then touches your arm*
What I actually said was “Not spending money.” And I really meant it. Over the last few months I’d been unloading my aggressively medium salary on city-style unnecessaries, like bespoke business shirts (why not off the rack, jerk?), eight course degustation dinner celebrations (you used to like birthdays at McDonald’s, jerk!), and a more elaborate, noiseless, water-efficient washing machine (ooohhh! You have ‘delicates!’ You sensitive, pansy jerk!).
But the problem, is that spending begets spending in the same way that Facebook begets self-righteousness. A week earlier I’d bought specialty, (fair trade of course), coffee beans (what’s wrong with Nescafé, jerk? etc.). But realized a little while later that ‘whole beans’ won’t work with my home espresso machine (YA JERRR…”Shut up, it was a Christmas present!”). Unlike expensive French Champagne or, I dunno… Boost Juice, you can’t just stomp the beans down in the bathtub. You need a proper coffee grinder. And apparently they cost at least fucking $200 and I’m way down the keeping up appearances rabbit hole.
A significant part of becoming ‘urbane’ or possibly ‘a city hipster assface’ means suddenly acquiring an interest in a whole range of specialty items, made special by their ‘stories’. At bars, eventually you stop asking for ‘house’ spirits with a mixer/’ruiner’ of sickly diet soda, you start asking specifically for Scotch, specifically-ly single malt because that’s what the guy ahead of me with the pocket square did. I myself ask barmen for ‘Laphroaig, one ice cube please’ even though I pronounce it wrong (La-Frog??), based entirely on my once reading up on the ‘tasting notes’ (spicy smoke, citrus fruit, nuances of thong panties ‘large’) which I can’t really detect (it’s a bit like… ‘burning’) because it makes me feel like a big shot, compared to the bouncy teens asking for Red Bull with a straw. Straight (or ‘neat-o’) spirits are also lower in sugar, which I assume also makes them paleo.
It’s the same with coffee. Through my university days I was strictly a Latte attempt at a man, as anything with any less frothy, yummy milk made my face sideways each sip. But as I matured or at least got less athletic, really milky coffee began to taste like tiny Baby Huey – Oh, make way! Make way for Mr. Buttercup! – and I began taking it ‘black’. ‘Dark,’ like my soul and ‘sophisticated,’ like Sean Connery on a horse. Without the milk to blanket the bitter with fatty, buttery warmth, the coffee is exposed. ‘Naked’ even, like your roommate, who didn’t realize you were home. It’s in this nekkid (tee-hee!) state that you have to care about the ‘tasting notes…’. And for the tasting notes to ring with any sort of truth at all, you need a proper coffee grinder. For fucking $200.
I, like a senior confused by a chain email, naively assumed a $50 spice grinder or my Nutribullet (I inherited it) would do the job, but various coffee blogs laughingly advised me to scrub the pigshit off my cowboy boots and ‘get real, idiot’. Blades, such as thoses used in food processors, ‘pulverize’ the beans into randomized gritty boulders and atoms, resulting in a flavor profile called “what did you do??” or so say the bloggers. So I got a ‘conical burr’ grinder that promised consistent, even grind that would unlock the secret essence of… The Roast. I got the weirdest boner reading the box. It cost motherfucking $300. Shhhhhit. But I got it home, and now I can taste the shade-grown rain forest every morning. Like a champ. I guess. Possibly like a chump.
YOU SAID THERE’D BE A BUNNY RABBIT! I sure did, and here he is. His name is Cookie, but I call him fat almost every day. It’s entirely possible he’s just very, very, very fuzzy and preciousandIlovehim, but in this age of superfoods and how to burn belly fat click-bait, I worry he isn’t putting in enough cardio. As well as unloading too much money on having “nice things” for not much reasonable reason, I’ve also been spending much more than a reasonable person should do on fitness. I subscribe to Men’s Health, ingest protein powder, creatine, Vitamin D, fish oil and L-Carnitine. I own a jump rope, a power band, compression shorts AND three – three! – compression shirts, one of which is Spiderman-themed. I’ve even gone grocery shopping in my active wear. I know. I’m a jerk. But I live in Sydney. \_(ツ)_/¯
But now I’m taking a stand. A stand against faux-authentic Instagram and its look what I want you to think I have obsessivism, against CBD afflueznea. I’m starting a fight club.
Stay tuned for next week’s post! “Get shredded for Fight Club with this one amazing trick!/ cats of the internet”