Solo Performance

My empty nest got emptier while my husband left town on business for a week. It was just me, the dogs, the birds and the trees. The solitude and relative silence of it had my anxiety buzzing.

One week. He’s gone a normal three days anyway.

Many years ago, I decided to say yes to everything, instead of telling myself I should have tried. It has brought me many happy experiences. And some not so much, but I’ll be fine.

I got excited when my friend said she’d come from New York and spend a few days. We’d play music, watch shitty reality television and eat too much. She might even force me to go shopping. We vacation together as couples, but I looked forward to the time without the guys. It could be a horror show, too, where someone tries to kill us, but then we Home Alone style save ourselves. Then she went and fractured a femur or loosened a ligament. Thankfully, she’s okay, but not driving. 

I resigned myself to being ALONE. Fear thumped in my heart, but I have been by myself before. And my alone is a very privileged version, with many good friends and the fairytale neighbors. It is an alone of choice. Also, of no obligation. Things could happen to my specifications and on my own timeline. That might not be terrible.

I turned my fear into curiosity, which is a magic new way a college kid talked about diffusing tension. She allows people the space to ask her anything they might want to know. That kind of curiosity builds bridges. She was discussing the Middle East crisis and I was talking about the panic I feel when I “menopausally” examine my mortality in the middle of the night, but it proved similarly effective.

Saturday

Though he said he was leaving Saturday morning, it wasn’t until my husband set the alarm for 2:30am that I understood Saturday morning was in fact Friday night.

That actual Saturday night, I went to a 60th birthday party. You don’t chose your heartache and my friend’s family lost a few people very close in the blink of an eye. Still, she made 60 look enviable, fitting of a fellow birder willing to warble in the face of tragedy. 

Sunday

I got a flat. Technically, Saturday night I heard a flat but forced myself home anyway. It was miles on the thwap thwap of a tire in distress, though no warning appeared on the dash. I made it despite my long dead father’s voice in my head. 

“Pull over! Pull over! You’ll ruin the rims!” But he wasn’t a woman by himself on a dark country road at night. It was worth risking my rims.

Nails bitten to the quick, I still made it the 11 miles into my garage. 

The next morning, I started to deal with it while my husband was sightseeing between meetings. Knowing him, understanding that he might book the next flight home to “save” me when I didn’t need “saving,” I called anyway. It was a weak moment.

In long term marriages you know each other’s soft points. I don’t like calling people.  I have a disarming smile in person but many times people misunderstand my direct, “Brooklyn” default for rude. I am perfectly capable of being polite, I yelled at myself in the mirror. 

It was Saint Patrick's Day. No one was open.  

The dogs and I had everything we’d need to wait this out—food and water, bottled and otherwise. My sheets were clean and my wifi was up and running. I surrendered to my isolation and had tequila with dinner.

Monday 

It took four or five phone calls before I found someone who said they’d look at the tire. The tow truck came. As the car rode away, I realized I’d have to ask someone to drive me to pick it up, setting up a whole new list of problems. 

It bears repeating that for all you out there, doing it for yourselves all these years, this might not seem like a big deal. I’ve historically been the one who does, not the one who needs. In my mind, anyway. We all need something sometime, even if it’s just a ride into town. It felt like a big ask.

Seeing my texts were getting very round about, my wonderful friend did what he’s done a bunch of times. He called me.

“Huh?” he asked.

I mumbled something. “Northampton. My tire.”

“Oh,” he said. “Sure. I’ll be there soon.”

I know that there are people that would take this as a matter of course. I would if he asked me, but sometimes when you really need something and you don’t know how to ask, a yes can bring you to tears. I tried to explain.

Like a perfect friend, he waved his hand at me like it was nothing, “You can cry in gratitude on the way. Let’s go.”

It was a good day. And a special thank you to the people in my life who know my needs and don’t turn them against me.

I’ve skipped Tuesday and Wednesday because I worked for much of it. I wrote a few more chapters on the work in progress. I have no more extra words about it. It will have to speak for itself.

Thursday

Today, my friend dragged me to finally get the seed starters I’ve been claiming to want. I’ll keep you posted, but the chances of the pollinator garden seed-starter kits living in either the garage or the basement are pretty high, but the goal is still germination.

I don’t really understand how the holiday this weekend snuck up on me. Purim is another commemoration of one more escape from people trying to kill us—this time in Persia, 479 BC. Instead of wallowing in the destruction, we dress in costume, dance, drink and call out in triumph.

When the name of the evil ones come up in the reading of the book of Esther, we scream as loudly as we can in order to drown out their name for posterity. Do not underestimate the catharsis of yelling boo at your enemy, even in a holy place. It is one of my favorites.

Friday

I’ve missed my husband very much since he’s gone. The house is big and drafty and quiet. But it’s also clean, properly temperature controlled, and louder than he’d ever appreciate. He gets back first thing Saturday morning, though I’m not really sure what that means anymore. Either way the dogs and I—I mean, I—can’t wait.