True confession time. I think I'm turning into a closet introvert. For the past few years my evenings have consisted mainly of me retiring to my room to surf the web, read, or watch TV. Hopefully, by myself. And now I've spent the last 42 hours by myself, mainly in my house, alone, and it's been blissful. Heaven. Like getting into a warm, scented bath on a winter evening, or downing that first drink of something cool and wet after mowing the lawn, or jogging in the heat. For 42 hours no one talked to me, no one needed anything, and no one needed a ride anywhere. No deadlines.
I've watched five movies. I've read for hours. I ate only what and when I wanted. I exercised when I felt like it. I spent over an hour in a book store just browsing. I did laundry and cleaned my bathroom, but I even enjoyed that.
I never thought a weekend to myself as very appealing. I've known people to go on silent retreats and I thought that was cool, but not for me. Maybe it's age. Who knows. But while I love, love, love to spend time with my husband, and I enjoy my children and friends, I find I enjoy myself, too. And I find I really enjoy watching movies alone. And I like to read. And I like to "waste" time doing almost nothing.
I'm looking forward to my week alone with Will in July. That's a different and wonderful kind of alone time, and I treasure it even more than time totally alone. But totally alone has grown in appeal, at least for 42 hours. That's probably just the right amount of time. Or maybe about 42 more would be nice, too.