Please Feel Free to Cancel Our Plans

If you expected my voice to reflect disappointment when you cancelled our plans and instead heard muffled joy, please don't take it personally.

It's not you; it's me. You're a treasure, sure to provide compelling conversation and camaraderie, but the truth is I never want to leave my house.

Credit: Getty

Ever since I adopted my shelter dog, Doris, at her age of 1 1/2, I blame her.

"Suffering from PTSD," I say to halt a friend who launches a calendar. "So alone," I continue, as dramatic as a bereaved in a cemetery scene.

I paint a picture of my pet whimpering at the closed door. And if I could mimic that sad sob, I'm not beneath doing it.

In truth, Doris is quite content home alone. Before I leave for my morning swim, I place two treats on her pillow, one to calm and another to reward. Her beautiful lashed eyes focus on her loot, rather than my back and bag as I tiptoe out the door.

And long before dear Doris was released from the shelter two years ago, into my loving arms, I was a homebody.

Now that unusual admission may shock some who consider me vivacious, affable, confident and of course, humble. I won't dispute those assessments; in fact, I'll wear them as medals.

But home alone, with only dog and streaming TV as diversions, is my preferred locale.

When you lovingly suggest dining out, my brain leaps to a list of pros and cons. Do I layer myself with restrictive underwear, pull neglected blouse and slacks from my closet, retrieve shoes with a modest heel, plaster on makeup for face, eyes, cheeks and lips? Or do I offer a dog- or dodgy-excuse to instead pad around my pad with nary of the above?

You may buy my alibi, and with pity, allow me to hide away, thinking my advanced age has addled my brain and I can't compete in conversation or collegiality. Bless you, sweetheart.

Instead, picture me at my preferred and sanctified mealtimes: I sit in my armchair, back supported by two cushions and a lumber roller. My feet are stretched and propped on a footstool. A wooden tray is on my lap, with a healthy meal centered. Faux silverware is on the right, napkin on the left. Doris is splayed on the floor, pretending repose, but scanning for leftovers.

If you counter with the endearing in-person ability to see each other's faces, can't we just FaceTime or Zoom?

I realize that those virtual meetings lack the intimacy and flesh of real-life gatherings, the ability to hug one another and possibly offer a kiss for deeper affection. But honestly, I can catch your ardor from my Apple.

Now you may be especially stubborn, and unused to forfeiting a match with such an older (83) and miniature (4'9") foe, and suggest you'll be happy to come to my apartment. For goodness sake, you'll pick up the food!

I feel cornered, the cops are closing in, how do I escape without anyone being harmed? Wait, that's one of the TV shows I'm currently eager to return to.

"Oh, so sweet," I say, "but Doris has a hard time with visitors." True, but it's really her owner who prefers solitude.

Now, possibly convinced of my wacky preference, you may have assumed I championed the sequester-in-place prescription during the pandemic. Perhaps you picture me a mad scientist, gleefully rubbing my hands over a caldron of COVID? Perhaps you'd add the sound of my maniacal laugh?

Untrue! For shame! I was compliant, accepting the directive like the good citizen I've always been. And when I closed the door behind me, shutting out social life, I was bereft like everyone else. Honest.

Perhaps convinced I prefer solitude to company, you may believe I spurned any suitors. But fortunately, in my second marriage, I found a mate almost as homebound as I.

Tommy golfed, pumped at the YMCA and played softball with teammates, but as the sky darkened, he'd predictably be on the couch, remote in hand, sitting next to his sweetheart.

Sadly, Tommy died in 2012 and afterwards, friends predicted I would shuck off my recluse routine and acquiesce to any and all invitations. Oh, there were a few times I ventured out, proclaiming I was a new person. But within weeks, like a Cinderella casting off her ball gown, I'd once again decline invitations to return to the hearth.

So, if in a moment of exuberance, I accepted your request to join you for lunch or dinner and you have since discovered a conflict or an out-of-sorts tummy or a better offer, please feel free to cancel. I'll manage.