I’m turning 42 on Friday and, for once, the planets have aligned and I’ll have the house to myself.
DS (21) has buggered off round Europe for six weeks with his uni mates on his graduation trip. DD (18) is off tonight on a girls’ holiday to celebrate the end of A-Levels, and DH is away for work from tomorrow for a week. He’s been moping around like he’s leaving me on my deathbed, and has left a suspiciously large pile of birthday presents in the kitchen like he’s trying to buy his way out of guilt.
But the truth is I’m absolutely thrilled.
I’ve batch cooked my favourite meals that everyone else whinges about being “too heavy for summer”, think beef casserole and lasagne. I’ve loaded the Sky box with all the true crime, trash TV and stuff DH pretends to be allergic to. No one will ask me where their passport is, I won’t have to negotiate for use of the bathroom. I won’t have to answer any questions about lost phone chargers or uni admin, or pretend I’m interested in the latest TikTok drama. Heaven.
I’m off work Friday and fully intend to spend the day in bed, eating like a hungover student and reading rubbish. No socialising. No pretending to be interested in my own birthday. Just pure, undiluted quiet.
But apparently, this is a tragedy. DH keeps apologising like he’s forgotten our anniversary, random friends keep saying how “sorry” they are that I’ll be “on my own”, and DD asked if I’ll be okay like I’ve just been dumped.
AIBU to actually be looking forward to a day where no one’s demanding anything from me, I’m not cooking, I’m not taxiing anyone, and I’m eating all the crisps in peace?
Or am I secretly a sociopath who’s lost the plot?