March 10, 2015
We spend much of our weekends talking about and planning for “the game.”
Where’s the pregame? What’s the game plan? Whose postgame should we grace with our presence?
All of these questions populate group chats during the hours before any anticipated night out.
But while our afternoon selves are glowing socialites, bright-eyed and excited to see how we’ll give other people FOMO, there's something we often fail to consider. The thing capable of destroying any plan, no matter how longstanding or elaborate: The Game Changer.
Specific game changers vary per person, but in general are the devastatingly comfy objects that make it impossible to motivate or ever leave home. Common examples include blankets, couches, sweatpants, socks, or anything with a 500+ thread count, but the list is only limited by how much you love yourself. These inanimate objects appear cute and harmless during the day, but transform into debilitating monsters by night, forcing us to call into question everything we thought we knew about our social lives.
Like, you were so certain you'd make it to that birthday dinner you promised to attend. 100% convinced that you “needed” to be elevated at Lavo that night. All until that plush grazed your cheek around 6 PM. Then you didn’t stand a chance, betch.
At that point you’ve already entered into the gateway, and pretty soon you’ll reach the point of no return. This is when literally nothing could change your mind (or physical position):
Bestie: “But your crush is gonna be there!”
You: “… Leave me. I’m crushing on this cashmere for the rest of my life.”
This process of full surrender to a Game Changer, while common, can occur in different ways. For example, in some cases you won’t realize the Game Changer has won until the morning after. This is when you wake up completely disoriented circa 4 AM, worried that you may have been roofied and then (somewhat) relieved when you realize you never left in the first place. Other times it is a slow, painful battle of telling yourself you’ll get ready in just “five more minutes,” until it becomes an absurdly late hour and you admit that you’ve been lying to yourself all along. You never really did envision getting out of that robe, did you? Acceptance and the subsequent cancellation texts follow shortly.
The morning after, reflecting on a night sacrificed to a Game Changer, it’s natural to have trouble describing to our friends exactly what went down. “I just couldn’t get up,” doesn’t seem an adequate explanation, especially when issued as a response to the wild stories of those who did make it out. The whole experience will seem surreal, and you’ll find yourself desperately wondering, “What happened last night?” which is weird because you didn’t even blackout.
By far the strangest part of having your night rocked by a Game Changer is that you’re not even that mad about it. Given the choice, you know you would do it again. And TBH you probably will, because while you’re out in the world, pretending to like wearing jeans, the Game Changers are sitting at home, waiting for you. Good luck betches, be strong. At least we can say you've been warned.