Every now and then I find it liberating — sexy, even — to be a grownup. Tonight it comes from the fact that in the last hour I felt a mad sweet craving, went to the grocery store to grab essentials and procured a dozen butterscotch scones. All without setting off the fire alarm. (I say this not because I’m a bad cook, but because the smoke alarm in my apartment reacts loudly to the most minor of offenses. I’m still nervous to go pull my rainboot/door prop away and cut off air circulation.)
There lives something inherently American about staying up to watch late-night talk shows. In theory, they provide comfort, solace, almost a lullaby. To an outsider, they look stable. They fit into a structure. It’s like thinking about the American tradition of the family vacation; looking in it feels uplifting, warm — it looks like nonstop happiness. Ugh, have you ever taken a family vacation? Especially if your family in any way involves teenage girls.
So here lies (lays, leis, loos) my dilemma. Do I watch Conan for mild entertainment and a sort of outsider comfort, only to wake up at 6:30 for a planned morning yoga, half-sleep while listening to New York’s Best Classic Rock on my alarm, and finally pull myself out of bed at 7:07? Or do I retire my inherent American perception of what was once the only market in television after 10 p.m. and instead turn to baking, blogging, and reading Terry Pratchett?
I fear I’ve made my decision. Goodnight, all.
