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.