Husb. has decamped to the basement happily uttering "man cave" and his desire to get back into "playing competitive chess" and "dremel tool use."
He and I were sharing the work space upstairs which meant that I made snide comments about his paper clutter, and he'd ask me when if ever I was going to finish my "book of essays." But it was me who had the poor habit of snacking on pistachios at the desk and it was me who got the shells in the keyboard and jammed the "e."
And now I have what Virginia Wolf said all women need which is a A Room Of One's Own. Question: What now, Virginia? The room has been procured.
I thought I'd be so happy. But without Husb.'s buoyant flotsam the room feels lonely. Minimalist, spare. I'm unsure of myself.
I consider the merits of painting the room salmon and bringing in houseplants and whether or not I should start a podcast. Who'd listen? What would my theme music be? How First World are my problems?
What do I like doing? Should I dust off my old salsa shoes? Am I drawn to making things out of felt? What about goyotaku?
Since having kids ten years ago I have neglected to nurture myself with hobbies, heavens, I don't even have interests anymore save what's for dinner and when's my next deadline which I circle on the calendar in the style of my grandfather a PR writer who used to edit only with green felt-tip pens.
And, wouldn't you know it, now that I have all this space I am drawing a blank.