The title says it all. It’s Friday. It’s Cince de Mayo. I’m at home, blogging from my couch at 11:30 pm. I’m rocking boxers and a Pokemon t-shirt. My makeup has been removed and my hair is in what could be a bun with a little more effort. Earlier, I bleached my entire bathroom, reorganized all my kitchen cabinets, and deep cleaned the litter boxes. I redid my whiteboard calendar since it’s a new month, I moved my “coffee bar” across the kitchen, and I turned my junk drawer into two junk drawers. I’ve had nothing but water to drink all day.
The point is this: four or five years ago, being at home alone on a Friday night would have made me curl into a ball on the living room floor. I would have wallowed in self-pity all night. I would have submerged into the sad state that was my borderline depression. I would have been thinking things like “I have no friends,” “No one likes me,” and “I’d he happier if I was drunk with my friends.”
Tonight, I’m happy to have the “me time.” I’m content with a clean house over an incoherent mind. Jerry Seinfeld is on, and the bathroom rug is in the dryer.
It took me a few years, but I’m finally content with my own company.