As Tequila and I walk around the neighborhood, I'm often asked if I enjoy my life as an empty-nester. Most often I reply, too rapidly, "It's great." An awkward silence follows.
Whomever asked the question never says what they think out loud--but I can imagine: "Daisy and Birdie seem like such nice girls. How can their mom be so cheerful about having them gone? What don't I know about those girls? Maybe they weren't nice? Perhaps they bullied their parents, stole the last bit of ice cream from the freezer or left their undies lying in the living room. Or wait, could it be that she needed them gone--that their rooms have been rented to strangers? Perhaps, she is running a sock knitting sweatshop or breeding beagles in their bedrooms...no wait, probably not beagles--those would be too noisy."
Invariably, to break the wild train of thoughts, the questioner casts eyes downward and the simple truth reveals itself: I am wearing shapeless white socks with my beat-up sandals, a fashion choice the girls can't tolerate. They have their standards--skimpy skirts, wedged sandals, a blue-etched heart tattoo and a nose piercing. And I have mine. And now, while they are miles away, it is my time to enjoy being me.
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