This is how my father rationalizes the way he operates.
It used to be irritating, but now I find these very same words pouring out of my mouth more and more frequently.
As you grow older, you catch yourself doing things that are "so you". You can't help but laugh because you realize you won't change, but you've already accepted it anyway so it doesn't matter.
While the new people in your life might say something, your forever people will roll their eyes and shake their head.
Outside of work and things we'll bundle as "responsibilities", I'm late. I'm alwayssss late. I try so hard to be on time and it never works out. I may seem upset about this, but deep down I feel nothing because you can't get too worked up about something that's never going to happen. It seems the harder I try, the louder the universe just says no and nothing short of a unicorn gets in the way.
People ask me things like how can you love Sister Act so much or why do you have a library card on your keys? I like what I like.
I don't believe in bottled water and I'll never drink it because I hate it and, quite frankly, that should be reason enough.
I also don't believe in carry out.
You leave the comfort of your own home, and your Netflix binge, just to think about your upcoming meal for the next 30-50 minutes.
When 15 minutes passes, you mosey into your car, pull up Google Maps and you hear those dreaded words, "YOU ARE ON THE FASTEST ROUTE POSSIBLE". YES, GOOGLE, I SHOULD THINK THAT EVERY ROUTE IS THE FASTEST ROUTE OTHERWISE I'D STILL BE USING MY PRINTED MAPQUEST DIRECTIONS.
Once that passes you're greeted with a song that is overplayed on the radio. You pick up your food and fall victim to all the smells. 30 minutes and five million red lights later, you get to eat that cold meal that looks like it's had better days. All this to save 3 dollars? Jesus, I'd rather eat dirt. Or, wait for delivery [braless and in fuzzy socks] while watching The Office.
When I don't get delivery, 100% percent of the time I'll dine in or eat in my car and spill everything on my floor. Unfortunately, every time I eat, I spill something. That's a lot of spilling. I make a mess and I feel terrible about it, but again not too terrible because fuck, I'm going to turn 90 before I know it and the very same series of events will have gone down thousands of times. And, I'm fine with that, but obviously not okay with ordering carry out.
Sadly, I'll never find joy in Lima Beans nor will I ever feel super jazzed about Seinfeld and Amy Schumer.
I like what I like.