For what I believe is the first time in the 14 years I have lived in my house, I am totally alone for three days. Rich and Georgie are in Myrtle Beach and Harrison is enjoying his first night of the summer at camp up in Maine. There is no commotion, no noise, no mess and no energy save for the conversation coming from my behind me neighbors who are discussing the yum quotient of the marinade on the chicken. If any of the regular inhabitants of my home were here I can assure you that I would not only be unaware of said conversation but certainly unable to hear it with the clarity I do right now.
It as at once peaceful, eerie, calm, disconcerting, odd and pleasant. I am not writing with the lingering anticipation of someone throwing open the door and rearing whatever mood they might be in. My feeling that I need to blog quickly since someone is going to want/need/demand me any second is born of habit rather than necessity. My slow construction of thoughts is perfectly acceptable since I am accountable only to me. I could get used to this.
Not too long ago, I wrote about my long weekend in Los Angeles with my mother. I remember clearly that it took me several days to unwind, let go of all the responsibilities I face everyday and enjoy the change of pace. Not so this time. From the moment I waved aimlessly at the bus pulling away for camp (aimlessly because the blackened windows made it completely impossible to discern if I was waving to my own kid (who was elated to finally be en route) or to the one kid who climbed on the bus crying (I gather her parents were not the ones who high fived one another gleefully when the busses started their engines!) I have felt more relaxed. Perhaps that is the trick – do this with some degree of regularity and it just keeps getting easier!
Given the gift of three days of solitude I decided that a creative project was in order. Mary and I spent hours at The Fabric Place (the name is self explanatory) buying that which is necessary to sew a skirt (two actually…have you looked at some of the beautiful fabrics that are out there?). Mary, being far more domesticated than I, is my own private Martha Stewart (without the sneer, general arrogance or prison record) and happens to be a willing teacher. ( I opted not to tell her about my 7th grade Home Ec experience until after the requisite purchases had been made: the Reader’s Digest version is that my teacher, Mrs. Blankenship (funny the things we remember, isn’t it?) became so disgusted with my pathetic attempt at sewing a, yup, skirt, that she finally took the material from my hands, tched loudly and finished the damn skirt on her own. That was the last time I attempted to have a skirt come into my home any way other than in a shopping bag). So we have a date on Friday to make it happen. I assure you I will keep you apprised of my success or failure.
Until then, I am here, still listening in on the neighbor’s chatter (which has, thankfully, moved on from marinade and has escalated to clinking silverware and laughter) knowing that the remote, the laptop, the shower and the bag of popcorn I am going to pop are all mine. At least ’til Saturday!
