The Hobbit Lets Loose - Or Does She?

You have probably often heard me refer to myself as a Hobbit, mostly on account of my lacking social skills and fear of my neighbours. I love the solitude of reading books, writing my novels, and generally staying indoors where it's dry, safe, and absent of confrontation.
Don't get me wrong, I do go out occasionally. In fact, a few months ago I was out until two in the morning at the clubs, dancing until my feet hurt and sweating so much I slid all the way home and collapsed into bed by three.
I do have fun ... when I get there.
The problem for me is getting motivated. The idea of going out seems like a lot of work and I'm more of a button pusher than a doer. I keep thinking about how long it will take to shower and put make-up on, how long it will take me to choose an outfit after I scream and cry about my thighs for a few hours. And then of course, I think about the giant waste of money spent on watered down drinks, the too loud music aimed at deflecting any and all conversation, and the dirty old men that leer at your butt when you walk on by.
Alas, a colleague of mine finished up at work the other day and he decided to have good bye drinks at a local bar. After my sorry excuse for a showdown with my thighs, I finally bit the bullet, let my brother-in-law choose my outfit to negate drama, didn't bother doing anything with my hair, and lightly re-applied the make-up I was already wearing.
Two hours later I was in the car on the way home again.
It was too bloody hot, the music was too loud, and I saw Jesus ordering drinks at the bar - that just aint right. Oh, and I stopped for ice cream ... twice.
Needless to say that leaving the house is a fattening activity with little highlight. On the upside? I got to say goodbye to my friend and give him a sqidgy before he departed. I also got my sugar rush and a quiet ride home.
Yes. I am a sorry excuse for an under thirty.

Hobbit - out. :)