On Pinterest and Friends and Beer, Briefly

I swear to God, if I Mod-Podge one more thing in my house, Sean will have me committed.

After spending the past year or so in complete, blissful oblivion, I have discovered Pinterest and now there is not an inanimate object that is safe from being organized, containerized, or embellished. It is slightly fucking ridiculous.

I have found myself uttering the words, 'oh, I bet I can make that!' and, 'oh, I bet there's a pin for that!' enough times that it's become embarrassing. I am not a crafty person, and I'm a cheapass to boot, so the fact that I am spending more time at Michael's than anywhere else is frightening. Frightening.

If I start wearing clothes from Coldwater Creek and join a Saturday morning mall walking group, y'all promise me you'll do something.

In an effort to combat all this age appropriate behavior, I have had more Coors Lights in the past five days than in the past five years. We had a visit from one of Sean's childhood friends, a man who shared the house we first lived in together, along with a few other people. It sounds suspiciously commune-esque, but it was really just a bunch of broke kids, flexing the muscles of independence. In my case, only about four blocks away from the safety net of my parents' house.

I keep finding these people from my past popping up, inserting their forty-something year old selves into my memory of them at twelve or twenty. Hiding a familiar laugh or gesture behind unfamiliar wrinkles, jobs and families.

I sat at a table of women at brunch a few weeks ago. We were all friends thirty years ago, reunited by the magic of the internets. That one there - she made a penis out of a pair of panty hose stuffed with cotton, and inserted into a Downy bottle. Now she's an educator, molding young minds the way she once molded that hosiery dong. The one across the table, the one in finance, was so in love with a certain member of Duran Duran that she openly wept on his birthday every year. When we were twelve, these are the girls that I thought were the smartest, the funniest, the awesomest.

They haven't changed.

Maybe I haven't either.

I have more responsibilities, and rules, and worries and fears. But really, I'm still twelve, and twenty. I still think farts are funny and I dance like I'm lithe and lovely, not sagging and sweaty. And when a visiting old friend cracks a Coors Light at 10 in the morning and says, 'Want one?', I - after confirming the presence of a responsible sober parent in the house - reply,

"Hell, yes."