Why am I always so happy to go home? It really doesn’t seem to matter where I am, who I’m with or what I’m doing; I always want to go home. Sometimes, I’m having a really good time. A great time. The second someone’s like, “Hey, you wanna go home?” I’m like, “Oooo, yeah. Totally. Let’s get out of here. Hey, it was nice seeing you…” I’ll chug whatever’s in my hand, tell the person I’m talking to that I’ll call them later (I won’t); decide whether or not I can wait until I get home to pee (I can), and get the hell out of there. I used to at least feel guilty for always secretly wishing I was already home, but not anymore. Now I’m balls-out honest about preferring a night, alone, at my house, wearing pajamas over one spent dressed fabulously in the company of amazingly attractive, popular people doing fantastic, enviable, big city nighttime things. Clubs are loud; the beach is hot during the day and impossible to park on at night. And no matter where I am, the bathroom is really far away and there’s at least one stall that’s out of order. But I’m young enough that I fight my desire to stay glued to the couch; I man-up, put on a skirt and join the Sauce for an evening of leisure and entertainment on the town…but the second Sauce is like, “Hey, you wanna go home?”…
julie warshaw 