Everyone has boundaries. For some, they come in the form of a personal bubble, for others, the filter of the mouth brings a sense of tactfulness.
"To each his own," I say.
I came to a new realization this last weekend of how far my own personal boundaries could be stretched. The comfort one feels in his own home is great; particularly in the college dorm (I use "dorm" for aesthetics, as BYU's dorms are generally reserved for freshmen and creepy RM's pushing the limits of legal relationships). This particular form of comfort of which I speak is not that of home, where familiar aromas of baking cookies and the seasonal Yankee candle fill the air. It's not the peace coming from a luxurious couch or real carpet. No, this comfort is the kind that originates in the depths of every young adult's repulsive laziness. It is this comfort that makes every mother cringe... drinking straight out of the milk carton; leaving piles sprawled across the middle of the floor; wondering when that cheese in the back of the fridge was bought, if it is, in fact, cheese.
Well, after General Conference this last Saturday (and eating my weight in cinnamon rolls, courtesy of Morgan, Wallis, and Tara), I returned home to find my roommate David and his siblings Kadi and John hanging out doing who knows what. Anyway, John headed out to woo some lady friend, leaving David, Kadi, and I to "hablar smack" and whatever else we so desired. Now let me preface the following before I'm judged too harshly...
-Kadi and I are VEEERRY comfortable around each other-
Well, about and hour and a half pass by and John returns from his lady friend and we realize that it's about time to head off to the priesthood session of conference. Me still being in basketball shorts and a t-shirt (I know... I disappoint myself sometimes in not being continually put together) realize that I should probably at least put on some khakis and a button up. I go to my room and find a clean shirt and a pair of tan pants... maybe not so clean... and slip them on, heading back out to the living room to continue the conversation so as not to yell louder than I already do. We keep on talking and I'm tucking my shirt in when I realize quite nonchalantly, Oh hey! Kadi's in the room... I'm getting dressed in front of her... my fly is open... my pants are unbuttoned... my belt is flailing around like a Relief-Society Lady's arms...
Sadly, this doesn't even phase me and all I even say is, "Oh, sorry Kadi... I forgot you were here" and I keep on talking. Kadi wasn't really sure how to take that comment, but we all came to agreement that our relationship had officially been taken to a whole new level.
I suppose the question is posed, how far is too far? I'm generally known for pushing limits and for lacking any form of filter at all. I say what comes to my mind and am blunt about it. Just the other day, I said with a full apartment to David and his girlfriend, Sara, that they are possibly the most retarded people I've ever met when it comes to food. I call out fashion faux pas when I see them (that's you girl with the lavender cowgirl boots) and I'm not afraid to tell the freshman girls living in Helaman Halls that their cellulite is hanging out as they break the honor code trying to tan in sports bras and booty shorts on the grass for the whole world to see.
Maybe someday I'll learn a lesson and karma will come to get me, but til that day comes, I suppose I'll continue in my tactless ways and enjoy every minute of it.