My beloved roommate and partner in codependent bliss left me alone for the weekend. Some lame excuse about visiting family. Whatever. She left me alone with nothing but my work and her dog. I really didn't talk to another human being all weekend. At first, it was glorious. Sweet, sweet freedom and an excuse to take leisurely walks in the Arboretum. (If you've ever met Sam, you know he doesn't go anywhere quickly. His ass could be on fire, and he'd still saunter over to the pond to put it out.) The solitary joy began to fade somewhere around Saturday night, when I found myself talking to Sam. As is typical for a pit bull, he did not respond. By Sunday afternoon, I was debating the merits of the gentle leader with some British woman out walking her Bernese Mountain dog. I was calling my mother just to ask whether or not substituting onions for mushrooms was a good idea. I was losing my mind.
I actually looked forward to coming to work today, just to get a little human companionship. Of course, I was quickly quarantined in my office, head down, red pen in hand, proofreading (which, I assure you, is quite a solitary pursuit). Perhaps there is such a thing as too much alone time. And I found it, one Memorial Day weekend.
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