Are We Lame?

I probably have this conversation with my best friend or my boyfriend at least once a week, addressing different versions of the same question: Are we lame? Is it okay to be lame? I want to go to bed at eight…is that acceptable? Allow me to demonstrate:

My best friend, on the phone, in Denver, says, “Want to come to Colorado?”



“Summer maybe?”

“Remember when we went to the Grand Canyon on two weeks notice for the weekend and didn’t take any time off work?”


“Me too…Is it wrong that I would rather pick out furniture at 7:45pm on a Friday than go to a bar with people I kind of like?”

“I don’t know. I’m drinking wine in my kitchen and could walk out the door with my roommates’ friends to go dancing in 20 minutes, but I just want them all to hurry up and leave so I can finally put some sweatpants on.”

My boyfriend, never a diplomat, never apologetic, does a similar grunt/shrug/eye roll every time I ask something similar to the question, “Do you think it’s lame that we never go out?”

“We go out! We went out to dinner last night!”

“Dave. Picking up pizza from Domino’s does NOT count.”

“But it has a garlic crust!”

“Focus. Do you miss staying up past ten on Saturdays?”

“The only point of going out was to meet girls. I met my girl. I don’t need to meet girls. I am not sorry for eating pizza and drinking beer inside with my dogs.”

“That is so weirdly adorable that I guess I can’t argue with you.”

This feeling of needing to know it’s okay to “be lame” is just some good old-fashioned insecurity. My grandmother, by contrast, has always embraced every phase of her life with grace. We were at lunch this weekend, and she casually mentioned how grandaddy is becoming forgetful, saying it’s good everyone’s beginning to notice.

“It’s been a good life,” she said, with that trademark twinkle in her eye. “You know what they say about growing old, don’t you?”

“It sucks?”

“To hell with it!” she said with eyes wide, quickly closing them as she threw her head back to laugh. “But really,” she folded her hands on the table in front of her, leaning in to look at me intently, still smiling. “He’s alright. It’s been a good life.”


Richmond, VA