Domestication

I'll never forget the first time I went to IHOP with Kevin. My IHOP. The one I used to go to every night when I got off work at 4a.m. and eat a shitload of food before going back over to the bar to drink and watch the sun rise with my coworkers. I always had the same server, Michael. I sat in his section for two reasons: 1. he gave me all the food for free; a family salad, chicken strips, cheese sticks, and a massive brownie sundae with extra cherries. In return, I tipped him $20-40, depending on my night. 2. I could smoke in his section. When I quit the bar I only went back a few times, and that was after long night partying, again, to sit in Michael's section.

...back to the story.

So the first time I went to IHOP with Kevin, I saw Michael. I don't know what triggered it, but he registered immediately and told me I had been "domesticated." WTF does that mean? Oh no! What am I gonna do? Was I wearing mom-jeans or something? After that I struggled with being who I am and domesticating. I didn't want to lose the battle, whatever it was against.

Just this weekend I realized and have decided to come to terms with the fact that yes, I am domesticated. It happened when we went to WalMart on Sunday and I bought... hold your breath... a coupon organizer. That's the epitome right there, baby. It's over and there's no going back. There may have been signs and indicators, but this tangible piece of evidence in my car now labels me.

Some of you may think you have known for awhile, but seriously, this is the line for me. So now I am taking steps forward in this knowledge knowing tha I can still party and shake my ass all over the dance floor, but when I get back in my Volvo at the end of the night, my trusty little plastic envelope will be there to remind me that I can save 55 cents on green beans. (And I will probably be home no later than 12p.m.)