On (not) living alone, or my (not) lonely life

In the days after my ex-husband's death, I heard from many old friends, some of whom I'd lost contact with over the years, several of whom I am still close to. Without exception, they remembered our house as a party house with good times for all. One wrote that it was a "beacon of hospitality" and recalled Joel cooking, while I ran around barefoot (and ruined my feet). Another said she as always so pleased to be invited because she knew it would be an exhilarating evening. It was a rare evening that there wasn't at least one extra for supper. I remember one man who batched it for a year before his wife decided to move to Texas and join him--he sat in the dining room and moaned that the only responsibility he'd had for months was to show up at our house on time for dinner, and he wasn't sure he couldn't handle more. A single pediatrician drove in the driveway so often that one night the teenage daughter of friends who lived with  us (another long story) fumed, "Why does he always come when we're having salmon croquettes."
The partying didn't stop when Joel left--but it changed and wasn't as frequent or as frenetic. Some friends drifted away, but many remained, and new people joined their ranks. I remember one friend at a party saying she didn't know anyone and then telling herself, "Of course, Judy has made new friends."
I was busy, working during the day, taking kids to this lesson and that and scout meetings in the evening and often not putting the car in the garage until nine-thirty or so. And then suddenly (so it seemed) I had four teenagers, and the house was full of young people coming and going. Plus there was family and a few who were extended family. It wasn't unusual to have fifteen or twenty at the Sunday dinner table.
As my chickens began to leave the nest, many friends worried how I, used to such a crowd around me, would survive living alone. The answer is "Very well, thank you." Oh sure, there were nights I stared at the TV but I was never pitifully lonely. And now the tide has turned. I love my life but sometimes I want long stretches of aloneness. This afternoon, from 12:30 until 5:00 I had no obligations--got a lot of work done and had a nap.
I have Jacob a lot;I have lunch dates, errands to run, an occasional meeting, classes to teach; I'm giving a fundraiser for one of my favorite local politicins, and I invite people to dinner frequently because I enjoy entertaining and cooking. I wouldn't give up any of this, but I do long for stretches of time when I can get something done. How will I write those next two books, for which I'm obligated?
Lonely? Not at all. Sometimes I think it's a sign of growing up, but these days I always have things waiting to be done, never succumb to "what shall I do tonight?" or watching TV out of boredom. There's too much to be done, and I love all of it.
So tomorrow morning I'll throw together a vegetable soup in the crockpot, go to church, bring Jacob home and fix lunch for two dear friends. Then tomorrow night I'll fix scallop cakes with lime/cilantro mayonnaise for Jordan. Think I'll get a handle on the Great American Novel? Not likely. I'll be lucky to keep up with email, Facebook, and my nap.

Learning to Live with Yourself

Years ago, when I was married and had young children, our house always overflowed with people--for dinners, parties, just for happy hour, whatever. Someone said we lived that way to avoid talking to each other and in retrospect it may be true--we didn't really want to know what was going on with the other. Then when I was the single parent of high school and college kids, there was always a houseful. Friends worried how I would do when I lived alone (it came late--some of the kids hung around for a long time, and Jordan came and went until she was almost thirty). But I did just fine, loving cooking just what I wanted, the freedom to keep my own schedule (I keep an internal one and am not real flexible, but, hey, that's how I live best).
Still there were what I called "divorcees' damn dull weekends."
All these years later, this was one of them. Other than keeping Jacob Friday night (which is questionable as a social event) I had nothing on my calendar. I decided I could wallow in self-pity or enjoy it and get things done. And I did the latter. My only outing was to Central Market, where I bought fish for my dinner last night. I spent yesterday doing laundry napping, reading a manuscript and then a book I'm reviewing. By last night I had made a list of things I had to do today--that's the compulsive in me.
This morning, lingering over the paper, I thought that I had better get moving to get all that done by lunch, so I could work and nap in the afternoon (my usual pattern). So one by one I crossed things off the list: finished the laundry, made up the guest bed because Fran is coming to spend the night Monday, cooked a rather intricate dinner for myself (more about that another day), got a start on cooking for three friends tomorrow, set the table, did my yoga, and so on. I was tired by the time lunch time came. Did get my nap and read more on the book I'm reviewing. And tonight I have a really good supper waiting for me.
I don't think I could have happily done this five years ago. I feed on having people around me, and I usually try for some kind of sociability each day. So now I'm ready for social contat. Hmmmm--who should I call?
It's been a satisfactory weekend