Opinion: On the hunt for ‘me’ time


Ah, to be a hunting widow. There was a time when I dreaded weekends in November, and December, and occasionally January, and it had nothing to do with the bleak wintry weather or the prospect of holiday-induced anxiety. My husband Doo would selfishly disappear, literally into the woods for days on end while I was left to manage four little kids, the house, and my increasingly-questionable sanity. But now, with basically an empty nest, I look forward to this most precious of seasons and relish my role as the wife of a deer hunter.

Doo and I have both discovered that mini breaks from each other is not only healthy for our relationship, but often necessary. The very reason we’ve been together for so long is that we complement one another. His spontaneity and enthusiasm for people balances my anal-retentiveness and penchant for quiet moments alone. He’s the yin to my yang, the alpha to my omega, the Chandler to my Monica. But those very differences also drive us bat-poo crazy, and we’ve found that short separations help our marriage re-center.

So while he’s off gleefully telling flatulence jokes, drinking beer and plotting Bambi’s demise with his bro friends, I’m able to do my own thing, which may or may not include closet purging, dinner and a show with our youngest, and falling to sleep before eight while reading my latest smut novel. We each are able to recharge our batteries and remember why we still like “us.” Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder, at least in the Wilson home.

Hello, my name is Danielle. And I love being a hunting widow.

Peace out.