I went out with coworker Katie tonight and we shared a pitcher of margaritas at the cheesy bar down the street from L3vis -- it's what we do on Friday nights -- and we bitched about how much we love our boyfriends. Very little ever comes out of these nights, except for a hangover, the knowledge that I could have real friends in Santa Barbara if I put forth a little effort, and the constant reminder that people tend to matter a lot more than I give them credit for. Before I knew it, I went on a three-minute monologue about laundry -- laundry! -- and somehow felt a bazillion times better about how utterly exhausted I am, how freaked out I am about being so close to being out of debt, how hard it is to be in a relationship, how easy it is to be with Aaron, how weird it is to have another little life to care for, how frightening it is to think that someday that life will be human instead of canine, and, of course, how much we adore our boss at L3vis. (I write this knowing she'll never read this, but know this: I will never have a better boss than the boss I have a L3vis, and not just because she lets us drink on the job; because when we get back from happy hour, she pushes us to work harder and makes us care about selling jeans. Selling jeans! I don't know how she does it, but she makes a bullshit job worthwhile).
I mean, jesus christ. Laundry? Seriously.