So here’s a fun story. I’m at home on a Friday night. Just me and the dog. Kicking it like middle aged people do. Putting on sweatpants and getting the laundry started. I’ve decided to have some wine. You know, just a nip to take off the edge of the week. I have the whole holiday weekend ahead of me! Three days of whatever I want! Who gets that these days? I mean I might even get some sleep, trim those toenails (I’m I the only one who struggles to stay on top of this?), and read magazines I’ve been holding onto from 2015. This is the luxury of not having kids isn’t it, parent-friends? Yes, I know. You also get to raise a beautiful human, mind you, but we’ll just call it a tie. Nah, I kinda win right now. Ok, that’s established.

SO. Funny Story. Again, I’m at home on a Friday night. I pour myself two glasses of wine. During the first one I talk boyfriend who happens to be working in Puerto Rico. He’s really great. . . Which just gives me cause to wish I were drinking a glass of vino with him. But I can’t. So I hang up and call my friend, Sara, who is pretty much The Best Listener. And we chat about life and weekend plans and I give her the 411 on my current situation (did I mention the boyfriend is in Puerto Rico? It’s an island. With bikinis. ‘Nuf said). Consequently, I have another glass of wine, because I’m at my house for the night and it seems like the right idea. Trust me. It is.

I get off the phone with Sara who sets me straight and reminds me that not everyone is a dirtbag. I believe her 87 percent and feel better. And, I’ve got some weekend plans. That feels good. And now I have time to write. I decide to finish my blurb about online dating and how it is truly the weirdest social experiment I’ve ever endured. Not all bad, but mostly all bad. Somewhere in the midst of typing clever analogies involving peanut butter, naturally, I got stuck on a line. I needed the phrasing for one solid remark and the right wording just wouldn’t surface in my writing brain—it was in there lurking around, probably distracted by women in bikinis as often happens to the best of us. So in my moment of not being productive as blog-writer-ten-years-late-to-the-game I decided on a snack. Cheese puffs. Can’t go wrong with them. So I ate some cheese puffs. I ate a lot of cheese puffs. Ok, I ate nearly the entire bag of cheese puffs. And I continued to enjoy my glass of wine.

Let me paint the scene for you, okay? Because I’ve got it good despite whatever my brain might be concocting—and it just gets better. I’m in an oversized chair. It’s glorious. There’s a footstool in front of me for my slippered feet. To my left is a stone framed fireplace that’s lit and toasty. Below me is my adorable little white fluffy rescue pup, Buddy! (exclamation point intended. I know. The decisions pet-parents make. I don’t even like the phrase ‘pet parent’ but it makes me continue to love him even when he smells and snores). My central heat is on and I’m wearing a wool sweater and my down-filled ski jacket. Yes. Yes, I am wearing my ski jacket inside while sitting next to the fireplace. You’ll be relieved to know that I am not still wearing my hat with flaps (think deer hunter fashion. Necessary for walking the dog on 55 degree nights). I am feeling warm, fuzzy and fabulous. And then, I stand up to go to the kitchen to put away the seven remaining cheese puffs to ensure proof that I did not eat the entire bag. Just look in my cupboard—I can prove it! That’s when it dawned on me: If I’m not going to write, I’m going to dance. So I create a Lady Gaga station on the Pandora and connect my phone to my living room speaker.

This is going to be epic! To honor the moment I decide to change my outfit. I am a thirty-six year old woman, at home alone on a Friday night, who is enthusiastically hopping into her closet to change her clothes into something more fun (I’m embarrassed to say it was a crop top and I might have found my palm tree skinny jeans) in order to feel ready to dance by herself in her living room that is filled with mangled dog toys. I will not admit to also freshening up my powder and mascara.

Now I needed some pals. So I turn on my TV’s Youtube and look up dancing videos. Before I know it I’m busting a move with various videos from Maroon 5, Rihanna, and some Madonna throwbacks and, perhaps, there was an AC/DC number that snuck in so I could dust off my air-guitar. I’m going to town. I tried the dab, which I don’t really understand how quickly shifting your arms to the side became a thing, but I remind myself that I am not cool and carry on with my interpretation of Mick Jagger moves. And then I saw it. My reflection in the sliding glass patio doors. It was something to the effect of watching an eighty year old marathon runner. Really respect their efforts and tenacity but their form leaves little to be desired and you’re worried this might be their last go.

I collapse to the floor. Tears in my eyes and laughter so deep that it’s not audible for the first twelve seconds. I am ridiculous and happy. And reminded that I can totally be a kick ass friend to myself. Probably the best night I’ve had alone in years—and thankful for all the stars that lined up to make it possible. Shortly after my cathartic caper my writing thoughts returned—the boyfriend isn’t able to do the same yet, but the fact that I can learn to enjoy time with myself has. And I am reminded of this every time I try to sit due to embarrassing amounts of body soreness.