I get it. The economy is rough. Some nights you really don’t want to go out. Occasionally, date night rolls around and you realize you’re two days away from laundry day and your best duds are at the bottom of the pile; you’ve still got clean clothes to wear but it’s not your winning outfit, and you don’t want to expose the dregs of your dresser to streetlights or restaurant glare. Sometimes you’re a grad student with nightmares about paying back that unsubsidized loan.
I get it.
And I can adapt. I can handle change. So when he called to ask if it was okay to ditch the vegetarian Thai fusion restaurant in favor of him cooking me dinner, I rolled with it. I set aside my hankering for funkified pad thai and made myself express excitement over the prospect of being introduced to his culinary skills. I may even get excited about said culinary skills.
But he's got to work with me. If I’m coming all the way to his place on public transportation—I swear, I have been sat on far too many times on Septa. Do people just not see me? I’m here. I’M HERE—then I better be greeted at the door with an already poured glass of freshly-aerated Pinot Noir. Don’t wait for me to stagger into your tiny bachelor pad and then proffer an already opened bottle of questionable red yanked from your fridge. This is not how it works.
When he changed plans, the second option better be an upgrade or, at the very least, a lateral move. Switching out drunken noodles for a bowl of steamed broccoli and a side of carrot juice? I won’t even apologize for never texting him back. I’m done with the tragic downgrades.