So.
I just got back home from a week-long vacation visiting my Lovely Fiancee™, which included all kinds of fun activities, like spending the day at the Tampa Ren Faire, visiting the Florida Aquarium and Lettuce Lake, and Driving Her Car More Than It Has Been Driven in the Last Two Years Combined While Running Ourselves All Over Hell and Creation at Breakneck Speeds. By the time Tuesday rolled around, we both needed vacations from our vacations.
All right. That's a little on the facetious side. (I'm sure I hear jaws dropping collectively at that admission, because god knows that I am never facetious here.) The truth is that we both very much enjoyed ourselves, and we got a lot of important work done. We picked out some paint swatches for the upstairs bedrooms in our new house, had our engagement pictures taken, pored over and selected our wedding rings, and picked out some nice wall decor for the house. In the spare time we had, I watched mortgage rates with bated breath. All of this made me realize that I am ever-so-slowly losing my rough-and-tumble, angry-young-man razor edge, and becoming one of those fat, balding, more-or-less contented husband types. I.e.:
- Someone who watches enough news to constantly be complaining about the state of the economy, and what the (insert political party, secret societal sect, or system of government of your choice here) is or is not doing about it.
- Someone who has a midlife crisis when he says the name of his all-time favorite band and his step-son or -daughter looks guilelessly at him and asks "Who?"
- Someone who complains about how the youth of today know nothing, appreciate nothing, and need to get their collective heads on straight, because, dammit, we walked two miles to school in driving snow, uphill both ways, and we liked it.
- Someone who wakes up with achy joints and a creaky back and can almost immediately tell if the weather caused them without looking outside.
- Someone who spends the large part of his day in his armchair, including the four or so hours after work when he falls asleep there.
- Someone who actually has to think when asked which he values more, a good bowel movement or good sex.
- Someone who actually gives a fuck what happened on Dancing With The Stars last night.
Yes, boys and girls, I am slowly but surely becoming old. And domestic. Well, more domestic than I currently am. I mean, hell, I cooked dinner a couple days for my Lovely Fiancee™ and the kids, and the world didn't come to a screeching halt or anything. And yes, before you ask, it was good. Damned good. And largely not prepackaged, too!
At any rate, this newfound bit of domestic complacency concerns me. I'm not quite ready to give up being the angry bastard I've grown up to become, and this latent bit of frumpy contentedness makes me think that I'm overdue for a good rantfest. All I need is a reason. And that's never been a problem before.
Or at least, it wasn't, before my memory started filling with things like APRs and complementary trim selections.
Damn.