Home Alone

For one more week, I can do anything I want. Seven more days left of my Relaxing Vacation of Solitude. Nick and his crew of five boarded a flight to Florida a week ago to shoot footage for his new documentary. Omar has moved up in rank from low man on the totem pole, the PA on the last doc to Third Camera on this one. They’re shooting on the road for two weeks. Both of them loathe being away from home. I’m trying not to let on how excited I am about having the house to myself for fourteen days, but I’m not fooling anybody. I mean, I miss my boys but having a swath of time alone is a beautiful gift. 

I was just thinking about how only four months ago I wrote a blog post about being uncomfortable with spending time alone. Historically, solitude has been scary for me. I surrounded myself with people because I never knew what to do with myself otherwise. I spent all my time focusing on others because it was easy and safe. But as I start to make myself a priority and start figure out what fulfills me today, I am beginning to like being alone, to crave it.

Here are the things I’m enjoying:

Spare time. I don’t spend half my day picking up everybody’s stuff — shoes, keys, hearing aids, mail, backpacks, papers and Gatorade bottles. I have to admit I get a little thrill when I put back in place anything I use. And in the morning, when I come into the kitchen, not one item is out of place. I don’t need to think about what everyone else wants to eat, then shop for groceries, cook and clean-up after. Simply not having to continually turn off lights in the house all day long frees up an unbelievable amount of time. 

Control of my surroundings. No people coming into the video during a Zoom meeting or Zoom dance class and asking me questions. Nobody yelling, “Mom!Mom!Mom!Mom!Mom!” No junk accumulation. I cleaned the whole house last week, including Omar’s suite upstairs and gathered bags of stuff for the give-away pile.

Calm Dogs. No terrifying 21-year-old boys crashing through the front gate and stomping into the house making a ruckus. The dogs act like these people have come to rob and torture our family. They bark and lunge until the overgrown boy enters the front gate, then they bark and yelp simultaneously as they run away and hide, quivering and peeing. In fact, I’ve put the dogs on a schedule like I did with babies: 8:30 wake-up, 9:00 breakfast then morning outside play, 1-3:00 naptime in the crates, then more outside play, 6:00 dinner, then living room time, out to pee at 9:00, then upstairs to bed. 

Quiet. I curl up in bed with a good book at 9:00 and turn my lights off at 10:00. The dogs take a minute to settle down in Omar’s bed upstairs, but when they do, I sleep like a baby the rest of the night. No holding my breath until Omar comes home safely from a party in Calabasas, no vibrating phone, no Ring notifications because Nick forgot to turn it off again, no snoring.

Serenity and predictability. Over the years, I have put most of my energy into making this house a warm, cozy and inviting home. I see success all around me — Omar doesn’t want to leave, Nick would rather be home than any place else. Turning our house into a friendly gathering place brought me so much satisfaction. Friends come over and eat dinner and hang out around the fire pit. My Compassionate Communication group loves to meet on the patio. Nick operates his production office from his Man Cave and the garage. But I’m ready to shift into the next phase, one in which I can focus some of my day on the solitary, creative activities that belong only to me.

Space to write. I think writing is the key. When I have the head space, I’m writing all the time, even when I’m not sitting at my computer. Before, when I found myself alone, I would be bombarded with memories, regrets, doubts, resentments, longings, all the things from which I distracted myself by staying in a constant tail-spin. But now I have this blog and other writing projects in which to funnel that emotional turmoil. Transforming the hurt of my past into words and then sharing it with my friends has been healing. When I began this journey, I didn’t expect to experience this joy. 

And the best perk of all, Dave and Thomas, the boys next door, feed me! Instead of the questions I’ve heard daily for thirty years, “What are you having for breakfast?” or “What’s for dinner?” I get a text asking “How do you like your steak cooked?” Every evening at 5:00, a restaurant-quality Ketogenic meal is arranged elegantly on a small, square white plate and delivered right to my door. Thomas shoos the barking dogs away and hands it to me through the open top of the Dutch door and says with a flourish, “Enjoy.” My Keto Diet Program has gone off the rails since Covid started (I don’t know how long I’ll be able to use Covid as an excuse, so I am milking it. This is much like the times I used to complain that I still hadn’t lost the baby weight and when people asked me “When did you have a baby?” I told them, “Thirteen years ago.”) When my Keto program was going strong, the boys and I often sent experimental dishes back and forth. Now it’s a one-way street. Thomas used to insist that I never return a plate empty, but now he silently scoops his washed white plates off my counter with a pursed, knowing expression. Dave is in charge of all things savory due to spending all his Covid downtime perfecting marinated, seasoned and grilled beef, pork and chicken. He sends those over with an elegant little side of vegetables. Thomas is in charge of desserts that are so delicious you would swear he used cups of white sugar. I can’t tell his almond flour and monk fruit Lemon Squares from the chemical- and sugar-filled bakery ones. 

Okay, I still battle my old habits of restless grazing and eating as much chocolate as I can find. Full disclosure, last week I finished off all the candy left from Omar’s easter basket — a pound of M&Ms, five Cadbury eggs, the rest of the Reese’s peanut butter eggs. Then I ate the remainder of the chocolate and vanilla portions of the Neapolitan ice cream left over from Deb’s birthday right out of the carton with a spoon (I washed the strawberry part down the drain.) I feel crazy when I do this and I can’t even explain why I do. It might be a rebound from dieting, from denying myself. Or maybe it’s because I get excited about being alone, having total freedom. But I don’t know what to do with myself at first. It feels weird and scary.

Whatever. All the chocolate is gone now, so I’m back on track. I’m setting a schedule for myself, eating well, sleeping well, writing every day, watching chick flicks on Netflix. I’m playing my guitar. Chloe is coming over for happy hour in the hot tub and then Indian food. The more responsibility I take for my own happiness, my own creative fulfillment and my own time, the easier solitude gets for me.

Nick called today to say he’s coming home early. So, for three more days, I can do anything I want.