I had lunch yesterday with someone I knew from high school. She is a year older than me and we reconnected about nine months ago when I was looking for contacts in publishing. Yesterday she told me that she got engaged to her long-term boyfriend. I immediately demanded to see the ring, as women are biologically compelled to do (very nice). She said, I feel strange telling people, because some people use it as an excuse to compare where they are in their lives and freak out. I assured her this was not the case for me, although perhaps if I had been remotely close to that stage, perhaps I would feel that way. As it is now, it's not like she's in the batter's box and I'm on deck, it's more like she's in the batter's box and I'm the doofus in the stands with a foam finger and my face painted red. And that is sincerely how I felt.
Until half an hour ago when I called one of my best friend's from high school. Since it is a Friday afternoon I asked her, "Are you at work, Beth?"
"No," she said, "I'm painting my house."
"What now? Whose house?
"My house."
"You have a house???!!!???! What??"
"I thought I told you the last time I saw you that I was building a house."
Meanwhile, I had just been looking at apartments on Craig's List and deciding, what the hell? I bet living in the ghetto builds character. And FancyPants is getting ready to move into her first house, a sweet, lovely little thing in Barrington (I can just see it now). Despite the fact that I am still at work, I am going to lay down now. Okay?
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