Over a lovely Thanksgiving dinner, a friend of mine asked if being naked whenever I want was the best part of living alone. I replied that I considered it a nice convenience but not the main perk of having my own space.
My parents came to New York for Thanksgiving, which was awesome. We saw awesome improv, an awesome play, and ate awesome food. However, the whole time, I was really sick, which was less awesome. After my parents headed out on Friday, I got sicker and sicker. By Saturday, I barely had a voice, so I cancelled my weekend plans, put on my comfiest sweatpants, and ordered Fulton Thai.
As I lounged in my bed, watching Parenthood on Netflicks Instant and eating fried tofu with sweet chili sauce, I thought how smart I was to stay in and take care of my health. What a mature, wise woman I was becoming, with a real core sense of her own best interests. Which is when I upended my Thai food container, spilling fried tofu and sweet chili sauce with little pieces of peanuts all over my sheets, comforter, pillow, sweatpants, and computer keyboard. Never has the word “fuck” been said so often in such a short span of time. Imagine emptying a minuscule container of sauce and finding it held an ocean’s worth of liquid, as though it was the main condiment at Jesus’ loaves and fishes party.
I ripped off my sauced-up sweatpants and sprung into action. I spent the next hour prying individual keys up from my keyboard and trying to clean out from under them with a paper towel, a q-tip, and a Clorox wipe. The tab was hit the hardest. The space bar and caps lock keys are also the worse for it and I can’t get the “A” to go back on at all. The hour after that was devoted to stripping my bed, pointlessly hand washing my comforter, and finding sweet chili sauce all over my apartment. There was sauce by the front door, sauce in the bathroom, sauce on the wall, sauce on my feet. The five minutes after that were spent getting a text from the Awesome Opossum saying, “Maybe this is a sign not to eat Thai food in bed.”
Let it be known that at no point during any of this, did I stop watching Parenthood. That show is the shit. And after all of that running around and sauce-finding, putting on other pants just seemed futile in this world of constantly random outcomes. So I didn’t. Which was fine, because I live alone.