Since confession seemed to be a theme in other blogs I've read today, I decided to follow suit. I wasn't going to write at all, but the guilt consumed me, and I must avow as well.
My husband has been working nights. He gets home at about three a.m., and being the dear that he is, he has been sleeping on the couch (which he can do quite well and satisfactorily, unlike me) so as not to wake me. I kiss him goodbye when I leave for work in the morning, and I talk to him on the phone when he's getting ready to leave for work again, somewhere around three in the afternoon. We get face time and actual time to talk come the weekend.
After a somewhat bizarre and harried week, I was in somewhat of a bizarre, yet animated, mood. I had the proverbial ants in my pants to do something besides sit on the couch and watch "What Not To Wear." And I had promised myself I wasn't going to spend three hours in front of the computer. I felt like doing something decadent and just accepting whatever consequences might follow.
I love my husband. I love my children and my grandchildren. And I love my friends. But I have another love, and sometimes I only want to be with that love. And so tonight, I am. I'm going to kick off my shoes and fix a drink. I'm going to fluff the pillows on the bed and turn down the volume on my phone. And then I'm going to languish with something steamy, and I swear I'm going to last more than fifteen minutes this time.
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