Friends, I am home alone. Not in a stressful “Kevin!” kind of way, but in a magical, beautiful one of quiet bliss. The fire is roaring, a Spotify Bridgerton soundtrack is playing, and I am so content I might never leave the couch. Let’s explore this rare gift of solitude.
Many of you know that my dreams of empty nesting have been put on hold indefinitely to accommodate a daughter who is taking a gap year and a son who needed a few months to find his post-college graduation path. The boy child has now moved to New York, but the girl one is on a traveling hiatus making money to fund her next adventure. She generally sets up camp in the living room amid the debris of her young life. And then there’s my husband, Doo, who always seems to be around. If he’s not on a conference call in his home office (right off the kitchen) with the door open, then he’s demo-ing bathrooms or shop-vacuuming the garage, seemingly oblivious to anyone seeking solace in Netflix or a Sarah J. Maas novel. The point is the planets have to align during a full solar eclipse for me to have a single moment to myself.
And for once, they actually have! Doo is away hunting (presumably to ensure we have meat for the winter), and our young-adult roommate has picked up an extra a.m. shift. It’s just me, the dog and a lovely string-quartet rendition of Madonna’s “Material Girl.” I am quite literally in introvert heaven.
For I am home alone. And unlike Kevin, I couldn’t be more thrilled. “Finally!”
Peace out.
