Sometimes I really like being alone.

This past weekend, Will had a lot going on. A bunch of his high school friends were in town for the Mark Gessford Memorial Scholarship trivia night (which was a HUGE success!), so he was preparing for that and hanging out with everyone pretty much nonstop Friday through Sunday. I was feeling lazy and tired and wasn’t as involved in the trivia night planning, so I just decided to relax and stay home by myself for most of the weekend. And it was AWESOME.

I’m not one of those people who gets bored when I’m by myself. In fact, when I find myself faced with some precious “me” time, my mind reels with all the exciting possibilities of things I can do: Read a book! Give myself a pedicure! Catch up on my DVR! Write! Go for a run! Go shopping! Just sit outside and think! (I’m serious, I’ve done that before.)

The thing is, I really enjoy myself. And by that I mean I love hanging out with just me. I’m a fantastic companion…at least for myself. I love me. I think I’m fascinating and an all-around good time. I could entertain myself for days on end without interacting with another human being and be perfectly happy.

No, I’m not a hermit and I do not hear voices in my head (that I will admit to). I just really like being alone sometimes – probably because it doesn’t happen all that often.

Here’s the thing that hit me this weekend as I was enjoying time with myself, toasting to myself, and exclaiming “Oh, go on!” to myself as I reminisced and recounted witty stories and anecdotes with myself (I promise I’m not crazy – it’s called exaggerating for the sake of entertainment, people):

Once I have kids, I will most likely spend the next few years of my life never being alone. EVER.

In reality, it will probably be a struggle to get any precious alone time until my kids set off for college – and then who knows, I might have a bored, retired husband to contend with.

So I guess that’s just another factor that will increase my risk of post-partum depression.

The good thing is that I’m giving myself a couple of years to let this sink in. Maybe I should try to spend a lot of time alone between now and my first kid so that I get really sick of myself. But trying to hate myself just doesn’t seem beneficial to my mental health. Plus, who am I kidding? I could never hate me! Look at this face!

Precious.

And/or scary.

Oh, and reason #1,237 that I’m not ready to have babies is that I want to be able to book last minute trips to Miami…like we just did for this weekend! I’m pretty sure going on vacation at the drop of a hat is not very baby-conducive.

Hand me a mojito and cue that Will Smith song! Adios St. Louis! Hola, la playa!