It's Not You, It's Me

I don't know if it's my age, my lack of hormones or the heat but I'm not exactly a people person these days. While I'm not packing my bags for a move to Walden Pond, the idea of spending a week or two in a cabin by myself sounds pretty darn appealing right now. Twenty years ago, I could never have imagined saying such a thing. The thought of spending that much time without the possibility of conversation would have filled me with fear. I needed people to feel whole; I didn't know what to do when I was alone.

My husband, on the other hand, always had a need for alone time. When we first got married it bothered me. Why did he want to get away from me? Why did he want; no, need to have so much space? Now I know. As is often the case with husbands and wives, our timing was just off. Now that I appreciate the benefits of enjoying my own company, he is feeling lonely and left out. Now that I understand what he was talking about a couple of decades ago, he is lobbying for more togetherness. I don't want to hurt his feelings but I'm trying to figure out who I am now that I'm not a full-time mom. I need some (maybe more than some) time alone to find the answers.

But, if there's any justice in the crazy world of relationships, we should be on the same page by the time we hit seventy.

All By Myself

When I was younger, I couldn't stand being alone. Naturally social (as evidenced by the fact I need to write about every aspect of my life), I always preferred the company of other homo sapiens to heading off to sunbathe on Walden Pond. Maybe I had a desperate need for approval and acceptance. Or maybe it was just a Hollywood induced fear of a masked intruder making his way into my bedroom. Whatever the motivation, I never found a reason to appreciate the joy of solitude.

How times have changed.

When I got the late phone call that my husband had been asked to join his boss for a dinner meeting, I tried to hide my excitement. Don't get me wrong. I love my husband. I love having dinner with him. But the Bulls game was on. My People magazine was waiting. Cooking would be limited to heating up some leftover pizza. C'mon. Who wouldn't rush home for that?

I was halfway through my pizza when I heard the garage door. What the . . .? I wasn't close to being ready to share my space. It wasn't even halftime. Even worse, I still had a secret doughnut to ingest. (Don't worry, I found a way to make that happen). It all slipped away so quickly. My evening alone had ended after a measly hour and a half. Oh, well. I put on a happy face and shared the couch (and the rest of the game) with my hubby. It seemed fitting that the Bulls blew a twelve point lead. But I'll survive. I haven't even opened my People and I still have half a pizza in the freezer. Just in case I get another one of those phone calls.