Debbie Does Drivel

I sit here, clenching my fat-encased disappearing butt muscles, carving canals in my quart of ice cream, and I think:
my life is so different than my best friend, Lisa's.
We lunched today, Lisa and I, and we both ordered greasy food. Lis, because last night, she and a group of friends went bar-hopping into the wee hours, starting with sushi, ending with guy picking upping.
Me, because at 5:30PM, I broke open a super-sized bottle of Pinot Grigio, watched my wedding video, and sololy got drunk by 7.
At lunch, we talked about what Lisa would wear to the Tuscan-themed party she is attending later this afternoon (peasant blouse and capris). I thought back to the previous evening, when I heartily pondered NOT wearing the grey t-shirt under my shapeless sweater.
Her cell buzzed during our meal, and she shared game conversation with singleton friends.
My phone rang too. But it was my sister going, "Guess where I am! No. Guess where I am!" When I could not guess, she's all, "I'm at the haunted Whaley Mansion in Old Town. I swear, I walked in the first room and felt a chill by my knees and legs and then..."
After lunch, we climbed into Lisa's black BMW so she could drop me off.
Pulling into the driveway behind my '89 Cadillac Sedan DeVille, Lis hugged me goodbye and asked where to get a pedicure close by, as she will be stomping grapes at this afternoon's fiesta (which in Italian is what...?).
I've run out of comparisons.
But adjunct point: I'm still in the same shapeless sweater/grey tee combo from yesterday. No reason to change, really.