True Life: I Hate Brunch
After spending a serious amount of time thinking about it while slammed into a 5 train with 300 surly strangers on my morning commute, I have concluded that the reason I don’t fit in in New York might come down to one simple fact. I hate brunch. Yeah, I said it. I hate brunch. I don’t like any of the food involved and I don’t understand eating a huge meal at 11am on Sunday and I certainly don’t want to pay New York prices for a huge meal of food I don’t like. At 11am on Sunday I am still asleep. And if for some annoying reason I’m not asleep, I better be in my bed watching my newly acquired Dawson’s Creek DVDs (complete series for $44 at Best Buy. NBD.). I’m aware that this makes me a lazy piece, but you know what, I work crazy hours and I like sleeping in. I’m not married and I don’t have kids, so who does this hurt? No one.
Let me be clear. No judgement to the rest of the human race who would apparently sell their first born child for a great brunch. I really, really wish I could be a brunch person. It’s sophisticated and urban and New Yorky, and the people I know that love it are generally much cuter and cooler than me. But I just don’t get it. I hate it so much. I don’t understand this New York obsession with waking up (hungover, for most people) and dragging yourself out of bed to get all dolled up in a dress and huge sunglasses to go wait in line for a table at a fancy restaurant with hoards of other hungover people in huge sunglasses. It is my worst nightmare.
Maybe it’s because I don’t like breakfast food. If you are obsessed with breakfast food, then more power to you. But the only breakfast food I love are bagels, so I either look like an ass eating a buttered bagel for 3 minutes, or I have to ask if I can order off the lunch menu and end up picking at a burger and four Diet Cokes for breakfast. (Have I mentioned that I’m not a foodie?)
Maybe it’s the dress code. If I’m getting food first thing on the weekend at MOST it is to walk 1.5 blocks to Tal Bagels and at MOST I am wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. At LEAST I am in a coat over pajamas and it’s picking up emergency hangover chips from Duane Reade. That sounds so sad. But neither of those things require makeup or a shower, so who’s laughing now?
Maybe it’s because I don’t drink coffee. Most adults are required to get out of bed first thing in the morning because without a giant $9 drink from Starbucks they suffer from headaches for the rest of the day (so I hear). Since I am the only person left on the planet who has yet to taste coffee, I have no such requirements and keep the Diet Cokes that I steal from work stocked in my fridge for just such mornings. No waiting required.
Maybe it’s the booze factor. Bloody Mary’s and Mimosas are clearly the main seller for a large portion of the NYC brunch crowd. But, not being a hard alcohol fan (another reason I can’t be a New Yorker for another time), and never having been a big Hair of the Dog person (excluding college football Saturdays/St. Patrick’s Day, clearly) this is a moot point for me. Personally, if I was drinking the night before I usually have no desire to drink again and if I wasn’t drinking the night before I have no desire to start. If I’m going to be drinking first thing in the morning it had better be a cold Natty Light in a parking lot in South Bend, Indiana, not a $15, 4-sip mimosa in some trendy Manhattan restaurant, thank you very much.
Maybe it’s the time spent. I enjoy an old fashioned morning rehash with my friends like any other human girl, but I’d so much rather be doing it in a bed (in sweatpants) or on a couch (in sweatpants) or on the phone while eating cold pizza (in sweatpants). Plus, do you know how many tv shows you can watch in the three hours spent at brunch? Six. Or I could run 18 miles, if I wanted to run 18 miles. I love my friends, but my real friends don’t make me put on a dress and makeup and spend 40 bucks and three hours to recap the hilarity of the night before. Now, maybe if I were dating Prince Harry and he was taking me to a Survivor’s Brunch this would be a different story. Would be happy to do that research.
I know this is the most non-controversial opinion ever to some people, but to many New Yorkers it is grounds for expulsion from the island. I once spent an entire Notre Dame football game watch sitting next to a (fairly crazy) Ohio State fan, and during the 4th quarter I for some reason mentioned that I didn’t like breakfast food. He stopped mid-sentence and staring at me in utter disbelief said, “Wow. I honestly thought I was going to marry you until you just said that.” Never talked to him again. True story.
So, maybe my distain for brunch has cost me a (crazy) husband. Maybe it’s just cost me my Sex and the City group of gal pals or my NYC social status. Maybe this whole thing just makes me sound like a ranting 20 year old boy and is super embarrassing. But I’m ok with that. Because my mom and sister-in-law both found husbands that are happy to go pick up bagels and coffee for them while they lie in bed on Sunday mornings, so there’s hope that I can find someone like that too. Because I’m willing to compromise on a lot of stuff, but lazy mornings spent lying on the couch watching Pacey and Joey verbally sparring in a WalMart just isn’t one of them.
But let’s get one thing straight. If I ever meet Leslie Knope or Ron Swanson you can bet your *ss that I’m pretending to love waffles.
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