Single-ish

I love my husband. I love spending time with him. I consider him my best friend. But even best friends need a little space. And even though we work nearly entirely opposite schedules, there's just something different about having the house 100% to yourself. And so it was this morning.

John left yesterday for NYC for work, so when I woke up this morning to the sound of talk radio, I laid in bed for a full 10 minutes as I listened to what was happening in the world, without hearing, "could you turn that off?". Then I got up, turned on the light and made the bed. No, there was nothing extraordinary about either of those actions except that John is normally still asleep when I leave at 7:30, and he definitely feels that I make too much noise in the morning. When I get home, it's pretty much a crap shoot whether or not the bed has been made.

So, after I got the newspaper, fed the cats and took my shower, I pranced around the house turning on lights, radios, microwaves, and opening and closing closet doors and drawers with wild abandon. I put my cha-cha heels on and clomped around on the hard-wood floors. I went crazy making my own symphony of morning sounds. And after the crescendo, I washed dishes, and put them away, so that when I came home there weren't dishes on the counter or in the sink. The house was exactly as I had left it.

In the end I would much rather have the alternative, but for these precious few days, I am reminded of what my life was like when I had a place to myself, where the only person responsible for the appearance was me, and only me.