I love going on walks at night with Rick. We leash the Jakester up and enjoy the crisp night air. It's especially fun right now looking at the Christmas lights that don the houses in our neighborhood. Everything is sparkly--like the houses have personalities of their own -- showing off their holiday colors like peacocks in heat. There's electricity in the air.
But I'm really, really ready to move into January 5, 2009. I'm ready for life to go back to normal. The normal where I get up in the morning, feed the dog, drink a cup of java or hot tea, read the paper or a few pages of a book (right now that would be the The Heretic's Daughter by Kathleen Kent), do my morning pages, and early on, find my way to my office and write, with my husband happily on his way to work.
But he's not. He's has taken the past two weeks off. We've had such a good time going to movies (which we love), running those errands we never seem to find time to take care of (which is great) and eating out (which isn't--nothing fits, my waist is creeping up and under my breastbone and my pants have nearly all become capris). I've not done anything around the house. No cleaning. Little writing. No exercise.
There are piles of things that need to be put away. The tree needs to come down. Christmas presents need to find homes in drawers, cabinets, or closets, mail is stacked up waiting for me to sort through it, and growing kitties of golden retriever fur swirl on the hardwood floors when I walk by, and I won't mention laundry. Ack!
I need a day at home and I know it will come, but not until Rick's back to work on January 5th. I should be happy that we get along well enough to spend so much time together, and I am -- but I miss my normal. A lot.
So, this morning I got up early. I quietly crept downstairs with my little Alphasmart tucked under my arm to do a little writing. YAY, I thought, I have time to write. The house was church-quiet. I was ready for a pretend normal morning. I fed the dog. I made a cup of tea. I curled up on the couch and took a deep breath. I put the Alphasmart on my lap, poised my fingers ... and then I heard it, the bedroom radio blaring.
I just want my normal back. I'm afraid that when Rick retires, I'll be swallowed up by too many movies, too much food, exploring too many new places, and noise, a lot of it. The real fear is that I'll love it, and then what? Will I stop being me? Stop writing? Stop being my silly independent self?