This past weekend, I had way too much alone time. My son is in Africa, my daughters were with their dad, and my husband was on a seven-day business trip.
The calendar was bare. I had no scheduled commitments from 6 pm Friday until 9 pm Sunday.
At first, I thought this expanse of quiet, all-by-myself time would be a treat. I’d read and write and nap and operate at my own pace. I might even stay in pajamas all weekend, and never leave the house.
After the first sleep, I longed for chit chat. I hooked my iPad to a speaker and played an Audible book right out into the open, no headphones required. Soothed by the story (if you like movie stars and memoir, I recommend Rob Lowe’s Love Life), I sat down at the table to eat breakfast and Zentangle a car.
Then I busied myself with laundry and spent a lot of the weekend on a movie binge, getting lost in stories. My son will be happy I finally saw Hotel Rwanda. My husband will be glad he didn’t have to sit through Behind the Candelabra. And my daughters were spared the foul language (and my riotous laughter) of This is 40.
By mid-afternoon Saturday, wishing for a “must do,” I added an event to my online calendar: Sit Shiva at 7 PM. My friend’s father had passed away, and I wanted to support the family. I looked online for guidance on what to wear and how to behave, and took my Christian self into a beautiful, new experience. I’m glad I went.
Clear in the self-discovery that I am not one to sit still—at least not when I’m alone—I spent the rest of the weekend going places, doing things, and watching the clock. Good God, was I thankful when the girls arrived home a few minutes early Sunday night! I hugged them too hard and too long and let them stay up late.
All that alone time drove me crazy.