Home, sweet home.

If it's a Friday night and I want nothing more than to come home from work, throw on sweatpants and sit in my papason chair with a book, guess what? I'm going to.

I am a homebody. And proud of it.

I don't remember an exact moment in life when I realized doing what I wanted was more exciting than conforming to what everyone else wanted to do, but here I am: doing what I want and loving it. Here's my perfect weekday (are you ready for this?): going to work for the usual daily grind, heading to the Y to sweat off the entire day's nuissances, then coming home to sweatpants, some blankets, and a good book or TV. Maybe a nice phone call or two to a friend or family member, dinner (if there's food to be prepared) and cleaning up the apartment with Jason Mraz blasting too loudly from my computer's surround sound. That is my perfect night. Is something wrong with that?


Weekends are a dream come true around here. I can sleep in, spend hours in my PJs, I don't have to shower, maybe I'll go work out. I stay up as late (or go to bed as early) as I want. If I go out to the bars, it's because I want to, not because everyone else is doing it. Quite frankly, everyone else can be a bit much. I like small groups of people. Drunk people drive me crazy. Maybe that's a fault of mine, I don't know. But I don't care. I'm choosy about social situations and only choose them if they make me completely comfortable.

Now don't get me wrong, this girl knows how to drink. I've learned my "Krista drank too much" lesson far too many times this year. From what I can recall. But I'm quite selective about when I take that Krista out of hiding. Maybe she only comes out when I'm completely at ease. And maybe that should tell me something about life at this moment and in this place. Or maybe she doesn't come out because I prefer the down-to-earth, homebody, silly version of me, who'd rather play a game of Nerts with my friends or watch a good movie while downing an entire bottle of wine with just one.

I would prefer a night in with a good friend and multiple episodes of Sex and the City (yes, I have every season on DVD) than a night on the town. Or a night in with The Boyfriend, cuddled in front of the Christmas tree, over a blur of jumbled drunkeness at the bar. Any time. Every time.

Am I antisocial? Maybe. I'd prefer not. I just think I'm selective. Personal. And I like me that way. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my book.