Fridays are predictably unpredictable.

On Fridays, I stay in my jammies and do housework chores... OR, I get into the dirty jeans that have been on the laundry room floor and go outside to play in the dirt... OR, I put a Miss Marple DVD in the machine and correct papers. I eat a pizza mid-morning. I complete the 2nd pot of coffee. I take the dog out every hour. Today, there is a sense of "pending" that comes with excitement: we're going out with friends for dinner, my brother is coming to visit next week, vacation (via train!) comes every closer on the calendar, and it is time to buckle down and imagine what we will be doing in that psych class I'm teaching this fall. It's raining - which is only a good thing; the new plants can be quite happy in their pots for another day or two. On Fridays, my life belongs to me, with all of its boring "must do this now" and all of its forward-looking tasks. I need a few more Fridays, I think.

There is some new credible research that suggests, for women, the Empty Nest is a new beginning -- like being done with menopause, it allows for a whole new rhythm for the day, the week, the month. What will I do when I don't need to cook every day and the laundry piles are smaller? What did I dream of doing, back in the day when I had to let the baby cry so I could go to the bathroom? I can't remember. It seems imperative, though, that I come up with a list. There's the gift of time that should not be squandered, and there's the prescription for sans-dementia aging that must be followed -- and there must be a consideration of my sanity. I feel somedays, when children are gone for the day and husband is at work, and there are no papers to grade (and it's raining), that I am descending into a twilight ... of life? of love? I don't know, and I should know. Shouldn't I?