Going out. Just the phrase going out make me want to put on footie pajamas, my biggest pair of underwear and watch a thousand episodes of Downtown Abbey. I was first introduced to the idea of going out at the tender age of 16 while spending my school year abroad in Zaragoza, Spain, and  I couldn’t get enough, so much so that for the next six years it was my livelihood. However, this all came to a screeching halt the second Father McShane handed me my diploma and I moved back home. Fast forward and things still haven’t changed. A miniskirt hasn’t hit my flesh in one fiscal year, and I couldn’t be happier.

Gone are the days of wobbling around in 4-inch heels, piling on five layers of mascara and taming my hair. My Friday and Saturday nights are now consumed with eating unhealthy amounts of ice cream, browsing tumblr and thinking about how nice it is, that I’m not going out.

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