I’ve decided to call the boyfriend GP for blogging purposes, mostly because he has been cursed (blessed?) with the initials GPS, and we own one, so I feel like that could be confusing. You know, should I ever feel the burning urge to blog about the Garmin…
At any rate, GP found out today from Large International Computer Company that, once his co-op position has run out, he can begin a full-time position. While this will not mean much in a day-to-day sense (aside from him being finished with grad school and whatnot), it does mean a nice addition in benefits, 401k, and a sweet salary bump that will equal him making almost three times what I do. Why, again, did I decide it would be a good idea to be an English major? (Not-so-secret answer: I’m crazy in love with reading, pretty infatuated with writing, and absolutely obsessed with grammar. Also, I have very few other skills.) I’ve decided that the most appropriate way to celebrate this promotion would be to do what most normal Americans do when overjoyed: eat. It’s not necessarily “emotional eating,” seeing as how neither of us is all that surprised at the promotion, so any joy we feel was anticipated, but this meal will certainly be something just short of transsubstantiated happiness. The meal in question?
Yeah, I know. Any complaints I may make in the next forever about wanting to be in better shape/lose weight because everyone and their sister (including GP’s, so there) is getting married soonish, are hereby nullified. With this meal, I plan to wallow in the greasy, crispy goodness that is KFC. Low-quality and cheap? Sure, but at least it’s not Taco Bell. GP isn’t partial to Mexican (or “Mexican”)– that’s what he gets for not being a native Californian.
Why is it that most celebrations are inevitably accompanied by food? Is it an impulse for everyone, to try and translate emotion into something more tangible, something that can be experienced in a concrete way? Lay those theories on me, and don’t skimp on the BS…I WAS an English major, after all.