Sunday, 15 March 2015

I need a man to open a jar

Today I woke up at exactly 1.30pm and didn't feel an ounce of guilt. I had pretty much earned one night of what felt like eternal sleep after two weeks of pure mayhem. For the past five or so hours since I've been awake I have flitted back and forth between my friend's living room and bedroom. Every now and then I get tired of not doing anything so I treat myself to mini nap - only for like six or seven minutes just to rejuvenate and start my lazy day again. I'm house sitting/dog sitting this weekend, and Bobo, my Pekingese companion is more chilled than stoner kid who skates everyday. And to be honest, who I am to intrude and kill her vibe? So instead I decided to live like her for a day, minus licking myself and eating food from her bowl.

I love Saturday's and even though all the days in my week right now feel like one big blur, I still like the way Saturday's define the start of a weekend, especially a spring weekend. There is something about a Saturday that feels particularly Saturday-ish, for instance brunch on any other weekday feels like food at lunch time, whereas on Saturday's it really feels like b-r-u-n-c-h. Although it was rainy today (more of a reason to be lazy), it still felt like spring. This past winter which still appears to be lurking via the remnants of snow on the sidewalk, was my first in NYC and has been a long and at times a painful one. It was only this week that I finally parted ways with my Kooples coat which needless to say stylishly saw me through the devastating icy cold winds, snow showers and sub zero temperatures (S/O to The Kooples for combining both form and function to create a sort of duvet/coat that prevented me from getting pneumonia again). For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt the need to shave my legs in hopes of getting them out and I even managed to give them a bit of sunshine yesterday with a sleek shirt dress and ankle boots. Hello spring, i'm ready for you mate. 

The reason I know that being lazy is an art form is because it really takes a lot to be able to not do anything. I even just lost the flow of this sentence because I was too lazy to think of what to write next and just scrolled my Tumblr feed, becoming distracted by kids in something called 'streetwear', whatever that is. Ok let's try again. I finally remembered the whole point of this post. I had been lurking in the kitchen for a while, snacking on salt and vinegar crisps (not chips) and debating on what to make for dinner. This was going to be the first time in months that I would have actually made food as opposed to buying something ready made and I wanted it to be special, that was until I remembered my friend left me spag bol in the fridge. Perhaps I'll make dinner tomorrow I told myself as I reached in the fridge to grab the leftovers. You see, my friend is a really good cook so if it came between my attempt to make food versus her already-made plate, it would definitely be hers. I started to get a tad excited and the timing was appropriate as I was running out of crisps - the moment literally could not have been more perfect until it wasn't anymore. 

It took about thirty minutes before I completely gave up. Thirty minutes on a lazy day is a long time and a lot of effort when you are meant to be doing nothing, but the fucking jar of meatballs and sauce would not open. I even had intervals where I was pacing the apartment hoping that if I left the jar unattended for a sec it would magically open only to come back to the scene and realise it hadn't. I then considered calling a friend over and asking them to open it but who on this earth would do that unless they were within arm's reach. During this painful half hour, I started to have dark thoughts about life as a singleton. I figured that I couldn't open the meatball sauce because I didn't have a man around to do it for me and therefore I didn't deserve to eat. You see how delirious hunger can make a person? In the end I felt completely defeated and just put the jar back in the fridge and my spag bol dreams to rest. The only thing left to do now was to open a Budweiser and write about this tragic moment while browsing the Dominos menu, easing back into single life. 

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