I get a whole twenty-four hours to myself this weekend. The better half got a better offer than spending time with me – for a day, anyway.
Mind you, I am not complaining. It’s a three-day weekend, and like most of you, I need it. The yard needs weeding, the fridge needs cleaning, hurricane supplies need checking, car needs washing. But I am looking forward to those first hours when the house is quiet, the real-life job is far down the road, and the cats are fed and petted. There’s at least some creative writing time on Friday night. On Saturday, I’ll do some photo work for an upcoming food story, combined with a stop at a little restaurant I’ve wanted to check out. A good running workout in the morning, followed by a manicure. More writing in the afternoon, and some grocery shopping, too.
But wait; I get custody of the TV remote when the big guy’s away! I don’t want to waste that opportunity, but what on earth would I watch? I have no idea what’s on TV anymore, with the exception of the news, food shows and motorsports. And speaking of food, I get to cook just for me. No issues here: I’m planning a nice omelet for Friday night supper, with a salad on the side. Saturday lunch will be pasta, my last substantial meal before a 5K road race on Monday.
Some couples cannot imagine spending time apart from one another. They see the space as distance, and distance as disloyalty; a sign that their relationship is fracturing into discontented pieces. But when you’ve been together for a certain length of time, you know that living in someone’s back pocket all the time results in suffocation, not satisfaction. Knowing the difference between space and distance, and being able to share our experiences without adding guilt to the trip, makes for good life partners.
Now I need to make sure I have eggs and spaghetti in the house, and figure out how to work the TV remote.