One upside to being divorced with a somewhat traditional timeshare agreement: every other weekend you get to yourself. Pure gold.
This weekend, for me, is one of those weekends. It was preceded by an unusual consecutive four weekends of having kids, so when I dropped Franny off at her dad’s, freedom hit me like a sudden blast of air conditioning on a hot summer day.
I didn’t so much drive, as sail, to my friend Vivica’s bungalow, where she shaped my unintentionally unruly hair into an intentionally unruly coif.
Then I threw on a black top and jeans for a date. And, no, my kids don’t know about this one.
I had time to kill en route to the wine bar, so I stopped at a funky boutique that sells art along with clothes. After trying on a dozen tops, I got this one, for eighteen dollars.
The date was with a nice guy. A successful white-collar, environmentally-correct, NPR-over-coffee-in-the-morning, Jon-Stewart-in-the-night kind of a guy. I so wished I had liked him. Unfortunately, no chemistry.
This morning I awoke to one of my greatest hedonistic pleasures: reading the Sunday New York Times in my pajamas, uninterrupted by young people to whom I am personal assistant.
Tonight, two friends are coming for dinner. It’s pot luck, and I will be making Southern Spring Salad with Basil Vinaigrette. If you like salad, this one is to die for.
Next weekend, I will be back in full-on Mom gear, complete with sleepovers and schlepping.
So today, I’m thankful for a weekend to myself.