Tuesday, January 17, 2006

It's Good to Be Alone

The Mr. begins a new job this week. I'm not at liberty to say what it is, but it's pretty much the same job he was doing before, just for a bigger, better organization.

He travels a lot. Sometimes he's gone for two weeks, sometimes a week, but most often, he's gone for 5 days of the week 10 months of the year. Even though I love to be alone, it took a little getting used to at first. I remember a colleague asking me how I was doing when he first started this work, and I almost burst into tears on the spot, I was so miserable. In fact, I think my exact answer was whispering, "Not good" and shaking my head and my eyes welled with tears.

But the adjustment period was short-lived, and I got used to him being gone so much. Maybe too used to it. Every other time I talk to my friend Kim she says, "Honey, I don't know how you survive with him traveling so much. There is just no way I could do it. You are so independent."

Oh, but I'll bet she could manage just fine if she knew about all the things I do when he's not there. If she had just a glimpse into the rampant hedonism, she'd be shoving her husband Kent onto the next flight out of LAX.

I do disgusting, shameful things when the Mr. isn't there, or anyone else, for that matter. Things I would almost never admit to if cornered and directly asked.

There was, for example, the first birthday I spent alone in 2001. The Mr. left early that morning, so I was on my own. Nothing was going to get in the way of my good time, so I drowned my sorrows in a giant hunk of delicious store-bought cake. All. For. Me. Oh, and the time I bought a tub of frosting at the store, got it home, grabbed a spoon and ate about half the container? Good times. Really good.

For one or two days, I'll stay in my pajamas all day. I'm not proud to admit this, but I've been known to walk the dogs after dark so I can a) just throw on a jacket over my pajamas and b) if I run into anyone I know, hey, it's dark. Are they going to notice I'm not in normal clothes? OK, I might be deluding myself a little with this one. The neighbors probably call me Frannie Flannel Pajamas behind my back or something.

I can feel free to ease up on the hygeine a little, too. When the Mr. isn't there, who am I getting all dolled up for? Frankly, the dogs seem to enjoy kissing me more when I'm rocking the rancid breath. Their noses hover by my mouth just a second longer and they seem to be wondering, "What is that scent I'm detecting...a little morning breath, perhaps? Oh, it's just delightful." I'll skip shaving my legs for a day or two. Keep this quiet, but I've taken a pass on showers for upwards of two days, as well.

Make that Frannie Flannel "Stank" Pajamas. I don't know, but between this and the walking-dogs-in-pajamas thing, it's a wonder I haven't been committed, isn't it?

Last, but not least: the crappy movies and television I can watch free from the Mr.'s sneering judgment and eye-rolling! I recently took in "Road House," and wow, was it bad. Fantastically so. But I got to watch it without hearing "Why are you watching this crap?!" once. "Center Stage" also makes a regular appearance, because it pains me to hear the Mr. snicker during the exciting, gripping final dance scene. So what if I want to watch a "Sex & the City" rerun for the 400th time? And maybe I like watching UPN's Late Night Comedy Block, because that Kevin James, he makes me laugh...step off.

So, that's how I muddle through.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got "13 Going On 30" waiting in the DVD player.