The joy of the weekend seems to be sinking in slowly. Like every sip of this wine I’m drinking, it lingers around for a while, its sweet warmth coating the insides of my mouth slowly, before disappearing inside of me.
It feels like a rare pleasure that must be been savoured. A lovely weekend. Spectacularly solo. Slightly secluded.
A weekend to myself sort of landed in my lap, quite unplanned. It felt as if just the other day I was telling PK how I wish for some alone time. In my defense, it was in the context of wanting to make single-serving soup. Because much as I love VC, there are some things that I can only do without him. Like make soup. Because he hates it. I love it. And I can never make enough for just me without wasting it. Or having to cook a whole different thing for his non-soup-loving self.
Little did I know that a flippant comment could carve out events in the future so neat that you wonder why you wished for them in the first place. I like my days alone. But that’s just the thing. I like the days. The nights? Not so much. One of the unfortunate things I have carried down from my childhood, is my fear of the dark. Every time I think I have gotten over it, something happens, to remind me how I couldn’t be more wrong.
I should have known that when I was gallantly wishing for a weekend alone, fate would take it as a challenge. And a chance to remind me of my worst fear.
And so it was that I was by myself, with four glorious days to do as I please. Now you might wonder, how it is any different from my life otherwise, seeing as how I am at home, as I always am. And the husband is away, as he usually is. But the crucial factor, the one that makes all the difference, is that when the sun goes down, he comes home. Even if it is sometimes after I am in bed, I always know when he makes his way home and slips in beside me. Because it is only when I feel the balance shift, when our mattress collapses under his weight that the fear in my head is put to rest and I can slide into deep sleep, which until then is but a restless attempt to get some rest.
Yes, I am totally, utterly dependent on the husband for this one. So much so that when I am by myself for more than a day or two at a stretch, it feels like a strange backtracking in time. Before we became us. When I was going solo. Single. Footloose and fancy free.
It is just the kind of weekend I had. Of eating leftovers microwaved just so. Of loving soup. Of being lazy and without a routine. Of doing the dishes listening to the Grease soundtrack on top volume. Of watching TV shows in bed without earphones on. Of not having to wait for the loo. And it made me realise that we each have a routine and a rhythm of our own. And cohabitation brings about a sort of synergy that melds the best of both and organically generates a common routine that works. Our routine together, is worlds apart form our individual ones. And while our every day lives are entirely separate on our own tracks, there is a common thread that binds the two somewhere. The thread that has been temporarily hung up until the husbands return in a couple of days.
It was the kind of weekend one needs every now and then. The kind I fortunately (because I don’t wish to test my fear of the dark anymore) and unfortunately (because I love making a big pot of soup and having it right through the weekend) don’t get very often. The husband’s travel plans are usually not more than a day. Sometimes, stretching to a single night away, at best. This, I have trained myself to manage. The mind shuts off, and manages it. The four-day stretch has happened once before, and then too I managed alright. PDespite my fear. So I suppose if I had to experience these longer spells more often, I would get used to them. But I’m in no rush to tempt fate and test this theory. Because even this weekend, while daytime was glorious, the nights saw a slightly terrified me, lying poker-straight in bed, counting sheep, while also tracing shadows in the dark through the slit of my right eye kept slightly open. Until I could do it no longer, and it collapsed shut, giving into sleep.
But the days. My god. Both days have been such fun. I had no plans (apart from making that soup, that is.) And yet, things sort of fell into place as if according to plan. Umpteen cups of chai at home and coffee at CCD have been consumed. An incredible number of pages in the books I am reading have been turned. Illegal amounts of time have been spent at Inox. Practically every new release from this Friday has been sampled (and I have a post coming up on that). Things have been baked, things have been cooked and the kitchen sorted. The laundry done, the clothes put away. A couple extra kilometres have been clocked, the night breeze has been enjoyed too.
I did it all by myself. The solo way. Nothing out of the ordinary. And yet, I had a blast. Winding down, I’m perched on a bar stool in my balcony, staring into the inky black nothingness in front of me, the keyboard tip tapping away, my glass of wine quickly condensing, here’s what I have playing.
I’m thinking about how three out of four days have just passed me by. Four movies watched. One loaf of bread baked. One pot of soup stewed. One book finished. One new book begun. Three episodes of Modern Family and one episode of Girls eyeballed. And here I am asking for more of this. I may not have conquered the fear of the dark as yet. But just for the sheer joy of this solo life, I’m willing to try (with the condition that there is a beaming VC to come home to at the end of it all, of course). Because it was superbly solitary and so satisfying.