Doing a Solo

Yesterday, Honey Mustard, The Peanut Butter and The Jelly had a baby shower to attend at Noon...

Which means that I was home alone...

You read that right; home alone.

As in no kids.

As in no wife.

Not a single person... just some beer, some cheese, some chips, some football... and me.

It was like I had died and gone to guy-heaven, where it’s always football-season Sundays and you can eat all the cheese, chips and beer you want and not get fat.

It also gave me some perspective as I totally get Superman’s Fortress of Solitude now… he wasn’t going there to meditate; he was going to get away from saving the world every five minutes. He went there so he could watch some football, drink some beer, stick his hand in his tights and veg-out.

Don’t get me wrong though, I absolutely love my kids and my wife... but sometimes... a man just has to be alone in his Sunday-glory with no worries except the occasional fantasy football-related question such as: “Why didn’t I draft the Bears ‘defense?” Or “What the hell was I thinking in drafting Lamont Jordan?”

(Being alone watching football also allows one to scream obscenities at the television with impunity when you see that your Wide Receiver on the Lions can't catch a fuc**** pass to save his life even though he guaranteed a victory the previous week... but I digress.)

Solitude is a good thing... unless your Emily Dickinson of course, then I wouldn’t advise it.