Ted’s out of town all weekend, and I have the house to myself for two nights and three days.
I can do whatever I want.
I can eat baguette with tomato and hard-boiled eggs and mayonnaise for dinner. . . again. . . without worrying that someone else will be tired of that. And I can eat almost an entire bag of chocolate cookies and watch that movie about childbirth that everyone else has seen. . . but not at the same time because Ricki Lake, naked in a bathtub, isn’t exactly appetizing. I can get up whenever I want and watch So You Think You Can Dance in fastforward and Father of the Bride and In Her Shoes (again) and drink coffee and call my mom from bed. I can braid my hair and unbraid my hair and braid my hair. . . until my arms are tired. I could even give in to my compulsion to cut hair. . . and I still might. I can Google diamonds and what kind of house we could buy if we moved where my parents live. I can leave magazines and bobby pins and chip clips and the remote in bed. I can take as long as I want to get dressed; I don’t have to get dressed until 5:30 if that’s what I want to do.
I guess there are trade-offs.
No one will turn off the lights when I fall asleep reading, and I’ll wake up at 4:38 with the lamp on. And no one will have park breakfast with me by the Peter Pan statue, and if I went alone, no one would protect me from the persistent squirrels. And I won’t have a dance party partner except for my reflection in the television. And I might even have to take the trash out myself.
p.s. i cut my hair. um, kind of a lot. i had my scissor privileges revoked regularly when i was a child.