I never should have presumed I was friendless. It turns out that I DO have friends. And they both decided to spend a night at my house.
It’s a miracle these two people— I’ll call them “Andy” and “Kristen,” because those are their names—even know where I live. I generally don’t share more than the two-letter state code of my address, lest the federal student loan thugs find me and repo my formal education. But I seem to have acquired too many manners while on my parents’ generous 18-year full-ride scholarship. Over the holidays, I suggested that Andy and Kristen were always welcome to stay with me, should they ever pass through the municipality of [REDACTED].
Lo, not a week hence, I received a request for them—and I quote—to “crash” at my “place.”
Let me go on the record saying that I love my friends. I swear this with my hand on the Merriam Webster dictionary, because it is the thickest and dustiest book in arm’s reach at the moment. Heck, I was the best man at their wedding EVEN THOUGH they forbade me to hire strippers, or naked women of any profession whatsoever, for the bachelor party. So when I point out that roadside motels were created for the sole purpose of not having out-of-town friends lodge at one’s abode, I point it out with purity in my heart.
The same goes for when I mention in passing that some wise tinkerer invented air mattresses: horribly clever devices designed to squeak with every toss and squeal with every turn; to sink the sleeper slowly, imperceptibly, onto the cold, hard ground; in short, to sufficiently punish any friends who failed to book a room elsewhere, thereby missing the point like a dizzy toddler throwing darts at the moon.
The problem is not with having friends sleep in my living room, per se. Nor is it with them parking in my driveway, eating my food, bathing with my soap, clogging my drain with their hair, standing on my bath mat, drying themselves with my towels, tampering with my thermostat, breathing my air, drinking my special imported beer that I never could find in [REDACTED] until suddenly it appeared and made my life complete, etc.
No, the problem is something else. As my grandma advised, you never want to wear worn-out underwear in public, because in the case of an accident you don’t want the paramedics to see your holes. Well, my entire home is like a personalized pair of undies. It exists to make me—and solely me—comfortable. And no one is supposed to see inside.
With guests, I have to move out of my threadbare silk chonies and into Queen Elizabeth’s starched ruffles. I know you know precisely what I’m talking about. On a normal day, YOU never fuss over the dust mites breeding behind the bookcase. YOU don’t care how much boiled-over (and therefore sterilized) soup cakes the stovetop. YOU never trip over the jack-o’-lantern in the foyer, and YOU always believed it would stop smelling eventually.
But your guests might notice these things, and they might care! Therefore, you are obligated under the ordinances of the Monroe Doctrine to scrub the ceiling, burnish the door hinges, take out a hit on the neighbor’s noisy dog, wash the dishes, and frequent the toilet at the gas station down the road—all to ensure your visitors do not judge you as a human being living like any normal human being who doesn’t get out that much.
Sometimes, when a person is hosting friends and doesn’t technically start cleaning until the evening of their arrival, that person must make tough choices. I had time for one (1) task and, under the circumstances, I chose the most prudent: I alphabetized my vinyl record collection.
You may scoff at my choice, but I have never lost my entire music collection to a computer crash. And if I have learned one thing about entertaining friends, it’s that no one sits around listening to the kitchen sink. Besides, in a pinch, Cat Stevens can lull ANYONE to sleep.
As with most anxieties in life, Andy’s and Kristen’s visit went much more smoothly than anticipated. I greeted them in downtown [REDACTED] and took them to a restaurant that once passed a health inspection. They got so inebriated that they would have slept in the car; instead, I drove them to my house and apologized for the air mattress.
Of course, I blindfolded them for the drive. Just because we’ve been friends for fifteen years doesn’t mean I TRUST these people. They could be Department of Education spies for all I know! To be safe, I’ll have to relocate, which on the bright side means I can finally hire those naked movers I found.
(Photo by Terry Robinson / CC)
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