I remember when Sunday evenings filled me with a vague ennui, very much like that low-grade sadness that overtook me as a child the night of Christmas or my birthday. The lethargy. The aimlessness. The feeling that I could’ve used my time more wisely instead of letting the hours slip past.
Sunday evenings are Christmas Eve for me now. Why? Because Monday means that I can be alone. I can drop Zora off with her nanny, I can kiss my husband goodbye, and bliss out to NPR while crawling up 395N. When I arrive at work, I can brew a pot of coffee for my floormates, crawl into my office, and not come out for hours. If I do leave my solitude, it’s only for a meeting or a quick trip to the kitchen to nuke my lunch and grab a Fresca before heading back to my office. My Space. It’s decidedly unsocial.
After a weekend of serving as my family’s chef, chauffeur, concierge, personal shopper, accountant, entertainer — Mama, I want yogurt. Mama, I want up. Hon, can you hang up your coat and put away your boots? Play with me. What’s for dinner? What do we need at the store? — I’m ready to unplug. Five minutes behind a locked bathroom door once a day is not enough. Besides, my dear girl knows how to knock, turn the doorknob this way and that, and push her little fingers under the door to wave at me. “You pooping, Mama? Can I see your poo poo?”
Yep. I love being alone, and I am not alone in feeling this way.