I know I may have been a tad overdramatic in the past and potentially tested all boundaries of social responsibility, but this time I’m totally shooting straight. I’ve zeroed in on my target and I’m just f$£%ing going for it, you guys.
Generally, that’s not my style. You may have noticed by now, but I’m what’s oft-described as a zig-zagged shooter. I’m spouting verbal bullets all over the goddamn place on the reg. Take this stylistic departure as collateral, if you will, since I know I’ve been a bit “boy who cried wolf”-y in the past.
The worst has happened. The absolute worst, you guys.
To be clear, it’s not nuclear holocaust time or anything, assuming that’s where your mind went. I’m no Nostradamus, in any event, so if this is where you’re turning to get your predictions for the future then, Jesus, you’re worse off than I thought. Good luck with that thing that’s set to happen in 2021 – you’ll need it.
Anyways, back to the worst – I’m through with brunch. I’m totally disinterested, y’all. You could wave an eggs benny in my face right now, and I’d be like “No, thank you, hollandaise is a bacteria cesspool.”
As if that little boner-killer wasn’t enough, get this: my husband is finally into it. He wants to brunch, and I’m apathetic. It’s the worst thing that could ever happen (taking into account the heavy mix of topics I normally broach, ranging from spirit animals to misplaced hair weave. I probably should have warned you to adjust your expectations accordingly).
So, what’s the big deal, you say? People fall out of love with brunch on the daily. This isn’t 2005, after all. We all know Samantha won’t be regaling her girlfriends with tales of her lover’s transformative peen at the next table. It’s probably not even the most used term under “interests” on dating sites anymore. The glory days are irrefutably behind us.
I guess I’m just wistful for a simpler time. A time when guzzling bloody marys by the gallon and eating one’s own body weight in home fries every Saturday and Sunday was an acceptable social outlet. In those days, it was as if debauchery and gluttony had a love child, and her name was bottomless mimosas with brioche french toast and bourbon maple syrup.
I brunched continuously through the early-to-mid 2000s. I’d grown accustomed to this lazy weekend ritual that started at noon and went until 4 pm. It was my thing. I stayed devoted to the cause much longer than anyone else. Interest started to drop off around the time Manhattan started to lose its position of prominence to Brooklyn. Brunch was becoming basic.
In fairness, it was always a bit of a ruse. It doesn’t take long for you to realize that the places who boast “bottomless brunch cocktails” are most often serving you watered down powder stirred into Popov vodka. Any former brunch devotee can confirm that the thrill of spending $20 for eggs wears off not long after your raging hangover from irresponsible Popov consumption, so it most definitely has an expiration date.
Brunch had been my longest relationship, though. I wasn’t ready to accept its fate. Instead, I moved abroad. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’m sure I subconsciously made that decision because I felt the inevitable coming. Brunch was on its way out.
I moved to London and met my boyfriend-now-husband, and I openly fantasized about bringing brunch to him and, in turn, London. I talked about it incessantly. He often mocked me about it, insisting I should let go of brunch. It wasn’t going to happen.
I knew it was only a matter of time. The culture was strong and starting to make its way into pop culture, so it would eventually migrate over. I’d put my cravings on the back burner, I said. Table the yearning for now. Be patient and I could get my wish to re-live the brunch revolution all over again.
As luck will have it, I became apathetic in my waiting. I’m not sure why, but I’ve lost total interest in this magical meal the goddamn second Europeans have perfected it. We had an excellent brunch yesterday. It was the culmination of three years of waiting, all coming together in a symphony of buzzy atmosphere, spicy bloodys and perfect poached eggs. It couldn’t have been more ideal, and yet I was entirely disinterested. I may never brunch again.
And this is all coming at a time when my husband finally understands what I’ve been boasting about for the past few years. He just showed me a place he’s brunching this weekend when he’s in London. He’s going for a second weekend in a row, making him a certified bruncher. What is happening to me, y’all?
I can’t believe it. It’s the worst thing that could ever happen.