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My family was out of town this weekend. I was a bit nervous about being by myself because we rarely spend time apart so I made a plan to stave off the weird loneliness that settles in when a familiar, lively place suddenly gets eerily quiet.
During the days I was going to work on some projects that I absolutely needed to get done but was finding damn near impossible to finish because of constant small child related interruptions. When I needed a break from being amazingly focused and efficient I’d do spur of the moment stuff that I usually can’t do unless I’ve arranged child care. Maybe I’d decide to go paddle boarding. Or try Cross Fit. Or nap in a sunbeam cat style. Who knew? Not even me because I’d be that spontaneous.
Pretty great, right? But I was most excited about my plan for the evenings: Eating take out food that everyone else in my family thinks is gross and watching movies with lots of profanity, sex, and violence. Extra spicy lamb curry and “Pulp Fiction.” Sashimi and “The 40 Year Old Virgin.”
The nights would be my oyster and might even involve actual oysters if I met some friends at that oyster bar I’ve been dying to try.
Productivity and independence by day, culinary and cultural adventures by night. What could possibly go wrong?
The stomach flu, that’s what. About three hours after my family left town I was walking back from yoga and barely made it home without an embarrassing and gross incident because I couldn’t handle the food smell coming from the falafel place across the street.
As I type this I’m gnawing on a piece of day old baguette. Both the typing and the gnawing represent the height of my productivity and food consumption for the past three days.
::: sad trombone noise :::
At least I didn’t have to deal with any, “Excuse me, Mama. But after you’re done barfing could you make me macaroni and cheese?”
Still. I was really looking forward to my solitary weekend so if you happen to run into the stomach flu I’d appreciate it if you flip it the bird for me because it’s a big jerk.