Last week Shannon and the girls went with Grammie and Opa down to visit Whitney, leaving me at home alone for two whole days.  Two days of doing whatever I want at home! Cereal for every meal! Wild parties! Don’t close the door to the bathroom!

It was really boring.

This was the longest that I’d been at home alone since Shannon ditched me in St. George to go be sick at her parent’s house more than 4 years ago.  We’ve never done the whole send-the-wife-and-kids-to-Utah-for-6-weeks-in-the-summer thing, and I’ve always thought families who routinely do that must be a little bit crazy.  I now think that even more.

(Not that there's anything wrong with that.  If the 6 week trip to Utah is what works for your family, more power to you.  And I suppose I shouldn't knock what I haven't tried.  And yet, here I am, knocking it.)

Sure, it’s nice to know that I can clean up a room, and have it be exactly as tidy when I re-enter the room the next day.  And it’s peaceful to have all the silence that you want.  But it’s boring to not have someone to tell about your exciting day.  (“Honey, co-worker and I thought up an improved axle design today!”) And as much as I dislike the frantic frenzy that is most evening at home (dinner! dishes! FHE! Baths! Bedtime stories!) it is just as disagreeable to realize that between 6pm when I come home and 11pm when I go to bed, all I have to do is feed myself and  . . . um . . . put on my pjs.

I’ve never really lived alone.  I’ve only been at home without Shannon a few days here or there over ten years of marriage.  Before that there were always roommates and missionary companions and siblings and parents.  I have several co-workers who live alone and have jobs and car payments and responsibilities and all that jazz.  It’s easy to imagine the head spinning transition they’d have if they suddenly go dropped into my life, but I’d never given much thought as to the adjustments I’d make if I were dropped into their lives.