My men have fled the house in pursuit of a testosterone-fueled sporting event leaving me all alone.

At the moment I could be doing anything. Literally ANYTHING  at all.

My options are wide open – dinner with a friend, manicure and pedicure or seeing a movie with my very own bag of popcorn.

I have six hours of “me” time to play with. Six. Freaking. Hours.

In mom time that translates into ETERNITY.

I’m a planner by nature so when I found out about this impending opportunity I considered my options carefully.  (Decisions, decisions, decisions…)

In the end I decided on a date with my very own self.

On the agenda: writing and wine drinking. (My top two favorite things to do.) I barely ever have time to put pen to paper (or fingertips to keyboard) anymore. It used to be my biggest obsession and now it has become a luxury I can rarely afford.

It is a shame.

The reason I don’t write these days is deeper than simply “not having enough time.” It is more because I am in a personal period of transition.

I don’t really know who I am anymore, let alone what I want to write about.

While that statement sounds quite dramatic, it is not a bad thing, necessarily. I’m simply rediscovering who I am as the kids get older.

At any rate, this break from reality (SIX FULL HOURS) is a welcome one. I’m embarrassingly giddy.

Pardon my hasty departure, I have some wine to consume and ideas to generate.