Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (e books free to read .txt) 📕

The lights come back on about twenty minutes later, as we’re halfway through with the rubber match determining the World Champion at Worst Case Scenario. Instead of bolting out of our chairs to throw in some laundry or run the dishwasher, we stay seated, enjoying the game and one another’s company. And even though I lose the game, I still end up with the feeling of Charlie Sheen–grade #WINNING.

Later, after straightening my hair and running the vacuum, I happily climb into bed. Before I even get to the part where Molly Ringwald sings Secret Life’s theme song or the cats open their first cabinet of the evening, I fall into a deep, blissful slumber, glad to be out of the past and back in the present.

My not-so-secret-life is good.

However, I do plan to shop for my own generator.

Because if the world does come to the end? I’m going out with the lights on.

Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:

Being prepared in life is good, but living life in the moment is better.

C·H·A·P·T·E·R T·W·E·N·T·Y-T·H·R·E·E

The Five Stages of Grief

“Gotta go! Close up shop!”

Two minutes later.

“Did you not hear me? We’ve got to go!”

A minute after that.

“Jen, the ‘Internets’ will still be there when you come home. Move it! Don’t want to be late!”

I sigh and log off, hustling down the stairs to change out of my robe and into some clothes. We have an appointment to talk to the bank about refinancing our home today. The rates have dropped and because Fletch and I are all grown-up now, this is the kind of thing to which we pay attention.

Or I normally would… if I weren’t so distracted online watching the melee between a bunch of bloggers arguing over whether or not some fighting unicorn-shaped dessert served at their convention seemed “racist.”

Don’t misunderstand me—racism is still a problem in this country and I’d never discount how tragic and unfair that is. However, I posit the best way to combat ignorance and intolerance is not by sending passive-aggressive tweets to those who ate the cake in the first place. [But what do I know? I wasn’t even invited!]

On my way out, I stop in the kitchen to grab my iPad. If the whole cake thing turns ugly, I intend to have a front-row seat.

Fletch pauses before we head to the garage. “You look nice.”

“Thanks! Did you expect to see me in my bathrobe? Or did you assume I’d put on yoga pants and a stained Champion T-shirt?” To be fair, that is my standard at-home, go-to outfit.

“Sort of,” he replies. “New shorts?”

I nod. I’m clad in an adorably fitted pair of knee-length, white Not Your Daughter’s Jeans denim shorts, [Wearing white bottoms for the first time in thirty years… thank you, perimenopause!] wedge sandals, and a sheer floral tunic with a stretchy tank underneath. I threw on one of my fancy bras, too, and not my usual ones with the tatty lace and spray-tan stains. I figure if part of it peeks out from underneath my Spanx top, it should seem intentional and cute and Hello, Sailor! and not, you know, pathetic. I don’t want the banker to be all, “Oh, honey, stop worrying about rates and get yourself to Victoria’s Secret STAT.”

I tell Fletch, “I thought I should look ‘breezy,’ like we don’t care whether or not we get refinanced.”

Fletch glances down at his khakis and gingham-check shirt. “Am I breezy?” I nod and then I fill him in on CakeGate all the way to the bank. His only response to my story is, “These are adults?”

I shrug and that’s when I notice that FancyBra is a bit tighter than I remember. Also, because it’s underneath one of my scuba-suit tank tops, the whole thing is compressing me in a not entirely comfortable manner. I shift a bit and try to move the band out of the ridge it’s already creating in my skin.

The bank’s door has a sign posted about all the items that aren’t allowed to be worn inside, like sunglasses, ball caps, and hoodies with the lid up, especially when paired together. As I read the sign I remark, “If the Unabomber wants to refinance here, he’s going to be sorely disappointed.” I give FancyBra a tug for luck before entering the lobby. My sunglasses are resting on top of my head, holding my hair back, but I suspect that’s okay.

Our banker ushers us into a conference room and then we begin to Talk Seriously about Important Banking Matters. Or, Fletch and the banker Talk Seriously while I concentrate on Shrugging My Shoulders in a Way That Might Provide Some Relief. Apparently upon sitting, I’ve angered FancyBra and now it’s going all boa constrictor on me. Every time I breathe in, it tightens its grip on my rib cage.

I swear this thing fit this morning.

Breathe and squeeze.

Although… it was at the back of my drawer.

Breathe and squeeze.

This bra is still new and fresh-looking and doesn’t have those weird orange half-moons on it from the VersaSpa booth at Palm Beach Tan, which is way better than the Mystic one. The Versa does terrible things to brassieres, but it gives my skin a very healthy, natural red undertone as opposed to the full Oompa Loompa/Snooki hybrid of the Mystic. [I realize this problem could be neatly eliminated if I spray-tanned topless, but let me tell you something. Gravity, like Panang Thai Curry, is not your friend. I’d rather deal with orange half-moons on my bra than the white ones beneath my low-hanging fruits.]

Anyway.

Breathe and squeeze.

Why haven’t I been wearing this bra in my daily life, which entails an occasional trip to the spray tanner? How come it’s not all sad and flaccid and comfortable like the rest of my collection? Is it possible that this is the bra I always put on and then immediately tear off again because OWIE OWIE OWIE?

No. I wouldn’t do that. I’m too smart to do that. I’m too grown up