Once upon a time, long before pro(zach)nation was a blog that billions (well, hundreds) read (and long, long, waaaaay long before I got too damned busy to remember to update this blog more than once or twice every, oh, six months), I was a writer.
And…not just a writer, mind you, but a pretty decent one. Back in the day – when the Great American Novel™ wasn’t only a pet project I was procrastinating from writing by maintaining a blog and working on several silly memoirs – I was a Writer. Capital W. I wrote stuff that was huge, tragic, epic, and beautifully, achingly, heartwrenchingly good. Every evening, a tall glass (or ten) of cheap, really crappy wine (Carlo Rossi by the jug, thank you very much) accompanied me on the patio while I spun pure magic from my keyboard. The words came hard as supernovas and fast as stars spinning and falling from the sky and where they crashed down, there was the brilliance of ten thousand suns. The sheerepicawesomeness of my words gave me a great big literary hard-on. And I was hardly almost never full of hyperbole.
These days, it’s hard to remember to write. Pro(zach)nation came about in the waning days of my writing ‘career’ as an exercise in keeping a struggling writer’s flame burning and as a distraction from those aforementioned creative nonfiction projects, which were in themselves a diversion from a novel that was quickly becoming too heavy to contemplate – much less add meaningful words to – on a daily basis. And now, with a career and a busy home life (heavy emphasis on the home with husband, light on life as it once was)…even this humble little blog is lucky to get much action. In the list of life’s priorities, writing – which used to be so essential to my identity – just seems to…slip. Sad, but whatcha gonna do?
Well, in this case, I’m gonna slam and lock the door. Then I’m gonna spend some quality time finding that lost identity.
Tonight – for the first time in I don’t know how long – I am writing. Yes, I actually am (see?! writing!!!). No, there’s nothing ominous or cataclysmic about this: Boyfriend (scratch that…’Husband,’ though after a month that term is still a hard one to etch into my vocabulary) and I are still giddily attached, and I haven’t found myself underemployed and scratching at my navel lately. There’s no existential quacking. But it’s September, and that means that Boyfriend is back in school. And – since travel season at work doesn’t yet have me schlepping hither and yon (stay tuned on that front…I’ve got a doozy coming) – it means that one night a week, I find myself left entirely to my own devices.
And know what? This is a good thing. A very reallyveryfuckinggood thing.
Don’t get me wrong: I love the time I spend with Boyfriend. More than I ever imagined I could enjoy spending time with any one single person, in fact. I love the person I’ve grown to be while with him, even if that’s someone a little different than who I was before. (and come on, let’s face it: I just love me, period). But that doesn’t mean that I don’t equally appreciate the infrequent times I find myself on my own. It’s MY time. I can jam out to MY tunes (not that I mind Britney Cyrus or Jason de Bieber), wander around in my underwear (well, not that I don’t anyway), and drink milk directly from the carton (and eat oreos on the couch, even!). I can drink myself under the table, if I’m so inclined. And yes, I can write.
It’s pure unadulterated bliss.
But also, when Boyfriend is done with class, I will gladly serve dinner (yes, to those longtime readers, the kitchen and I have somewhat declared an uneasy truce), banish the acoustic rock (or what Boyfriend calls my ‘weepy suicide music’) or thrashy screamo (my ‘noise’), and play nauseatingly-doting husband.
See, that’s the key to a happy and healthy relationship, I think. Now that I’m all settled into matrimonial harmony, I seem to more often than not find myself in the weird position of dispensing relationship advice to people. I’m no Dan Savage, mind you, but I can hold my own.
As a coworker and I were discussing today, sometimes you just need your own fucking time. That’s not to say you aren’t completely, blissfully happy with your relationship. It doesn’t mean that you are so adverse to spending time connecting with your significant other that you start developing a rash after spending twenty-four hours together (though if that happens, Urgent Care does offer STD testing). It isn’t a diminishment of your relationship. It doesn’t mean you’re an asshole (even if you are). It just means you’re a healthy, well-adjusted human being.
Know what else? It probably means your relationship will be stronger.
Finding yourself in the company of nobody? Embrace the motherfucker.
Thus ends this week’s little bon-mots in domesticity. If you’ll excuse me, there’s a bottle of wine calling my name and two beautiful hours before Boyfriend gets back, and it’s time to go be myself and try to write something a little bit fucking sublime.
Now, thanks for coming. Go away.
Postscript: in case you haven’t noticed, the look of pro(zach)nation has changed a bit. It will probably keep doing so for a little while until I’m completely happy with the look. Love something? Hate something? Let me know…I might listen.