I rise earlier than everyone in the family, and I cherish that quiet time for a bike ride through coastal fog, a cup of coffee in solitude and time to immerse myself in the latest New Yorker (on days when I am off).
It may epitomize a formerly dormant antisocial quality. I've always valued my quiet time, my ideal day a balance of solo activities in the morning followed by time with family or friends.
My idea of a desirable social event has also evolved. I enjoy a tranquil environment with a handful of people who are interested in diving deeply into a topic or the opportunity to check in with friends.
Crowds appeal very little. Quotidian noises like the ventilation fan over the stove grate on my nerves in ways they never used to.
I took my daughter to a concert at the Greek Theater a few weeks ago, and I was equally delighted for her to enjoy the experience and aware of how not my scene it had become.
As I become a grumpier recluse, I find myself adrift more often. If the kids are loud, I end up retreating inside my head, physically present but minimally attuned to the moment.
This is troubling - those moments are finite and my stockpile is dwindling.
There is a cascade of unintended consequences when I check out - the fewer details I am party to, the less likely they will seek me out when trouble arises, the more excluded I feel from their inner worlds.
It's not enough to stay afloat. I need to anchor to their worlds, get out of my head, pay attention to the details.
Excess solitude risks a future of drifting at the surface.