What I'm Saying

Once inside, you probably had a routine—raid the refrigerator and pantry, zone out in front of the tube, chat with friends on the phone one way or the other depending on the decade and technology, and perhaps do homework. If you were really lucky and the weather cooperated, you played outside until you fell, scraped your knee and needed a band aid. Or were thirsty. You get the picture, my picture.

Now that I’m a retired writer, soon to be published author, and divorced, I spend a lot of time inside my townhouse without adult supervision. The keyword here is “adult,” as my granddaughter who’s six directs my activities each afternoon after I pick her up from school. More about that later.

In the solitary hours I have from the time I wake up until I get in my car to drive seven minutes to get my granddaughter, I fill my time by deciding which cereal to eat and what order to fill my bowl with bananas, strawberries and blueberries; yelling at early morning talk show hosts; ignoring robocalls; texting friends, and tending to my writing or the business thereof. Just about every other morning I go to the gym and tread my way about a mile and a half. My knees are grateful.

Because…in two hours, I’ll no longer be a latchkey adult. I’ll pick up my granddaughter, who’ll direct me to the dining establishment of her choice, argue with me about doing five minutes of homework until tears form (mine), insist we play some game she must win (which she does legitimately most of the time anyway), and then eat her way through my refrigerator and pantry (filled with her favorite noshes).

So when I read The Case for Doing Nothing in the New York Times, I realized I needed to take a step back and fit nothing-doing-ness into the latchkey adult segment of my daily routine.