Its currently 8:15pm, partly cloudy, 78 degrees
And I'm supposed to go out for the evening in Manhattan, with Brian and Jill (and possibly Julie) who are in from Angola, and probably Nicole. Usually, when I go out to the city with Nicole, whoever is unfortunate enough to join us usually has to endure a certain amount of ridicule from other people staring at Nicole and I dancing like fools in whatever bar we're in, shaking their heads and whispering to the rest of our party, "Are you with them?" And normally, this provides an enormous amount of entertainment for us. So naturally, you'd think that I'd be cheerfully getting ready for another night of debauchery.
But for the past half hour, I've sat on my bed in my pleasantly climated-controlled room sipping coffee, feeling my wet hair grow to approximately the size of a beach ball, and reading David Sedaris' Me Talk Pretty One Day, smiling to myself (and occasionally bursting into laughter) and enjoying the peace of mind that a good book and strong cup of coffee can bring. Add to that the scenes of pink and gray dancing across the sky like a VanGogh painting outside my window, and honestly, I can't really think of a reason to get out of my room.
However, I know that after another hour or so, the coffee will get cold, I'll have finished the book (since I'm already three-quarters into it) and the sky will have turned inky black and rather uninviting. And I'll be sitting, still in my pajamas, hair now reaching the ceiling fan, thinking of how I should have just got off my ass and gone out. So, with a reluctant and heavy sigh, I put down my book and began the long process of grooming before going out, taking one last stop at my computer to type this entry, realizing that it is really not shameful to make a fool of yourself sometimes.