My fellow introverts will understand that to spend a weekend mostly alone is really glorious.
I ate what I wanted (leftover lentil and vegetable soup for lunch and dinner, lunch and dinner, etc.), watched what I wanted (Sherlock + period dramas), and read what I wanted (the Outlander series, book two).
I spent a large chunk of time considering whether or not to haul a large bag of potting soil home from Eastern Market, that Pugsley might be made more comfortable. He seems to like my windowsill a lot. It probably helps, too, that when I think of it, I dump the last eighth of my water bottle over him.
I wandered around Capitol Hill Books for a while, as much as you can wander in a cramped shop with precarious stacks of books and threatening notes warning you to watch where you lean.
I glowered at a group of college students who stood in the middle of everything, talking excitedly about this Hawthorne, that Fitzgerald. Yes, yes, I thought grumpily, We all love this place and these books. But let’s not be fools about it.
I am the old bishop who limps around the cathedral, warning tourists to keep it down. Preservation of the hallowed sanctuary is more important than enthusiasm about the hallowed sanctuary, if you know what I mean.
It was nice to not have a witness to my unattractive bitterness, save for a man with whom I exchanged an eye roll in the Whitman section.
Then I went home and cried over Out of Africa, for the millionth time.
Tomorrow I’m going to a Nationals game with some new friends.
More soup for dinner tonight, I think.