2 Hours, 37 Minutes

2 hours, 37 minutes. That’s how long I could stand the sheer enjoyment of my own company. I always look forward to the rare stolen moments when I have the house to myself for a few hours. I make plans. BIG plans. I’m going to do at least one full workout or yoga, uninterrupted. I’m going to cook fish. I’m going to finally finish that book everyone was reading when I started it. I’m going to rifle through all those magazines beside my bed and actually throw some of them away. I don’t think I need to know what Debbie Allen made for Thanksgiving dinner… in 1996. I’m going to return all the messages on my voice mail and change the outgoing message on my cell phone. 2 hours, 37 minutes. I watched 4 sit-coms. I ate left over take-away Chinese. My nod to exercise turned out to be emptying the trash and downloading 4 new exercises for my hips and thighs. I nearly finished the TV Guide crossword puzzle. I ate an ice cream sandwich for dinner. 2 hours, 37 minutes. Couldn’t stand my own company a single moment longer. I called a pal and thankfully, his life is no more interesting than mine on a Thursday night filled with reruns. We’re meeting at the bar.