Home Alone

I'm a 28-year-old Latchkey kid.
My wife doesn't get home from work until 6:30 in the evening (can you imagine? a forty-hour workweek?).
I get home close to 4:00, (government employee=bankers' hours) so that's an awesome two-plus hours where I can chill in my man-cave by myself. By man-cave, I mean damp, dark basement with a mini-fridge of Banquet Beer, a recliner-equipped sectional and a 106-inch projector screen.
The biggest decision in these two hours is whether to pay attention to the current Blockbuster Rental or play spider solitaire on my laptop.
After shedding my pants and workshirt for boxers and bathrobe, I fix a delicious and nutritious snack (stale tortilla chips, string cheese, snak pak) before heading to the lower level where the lights are low and the Coors is cold.
I can't argue that I am the luckiest man on the planet. I retain the bachelor lifestyle while enjoying the benefits of married life (see: double income, occasional hot meals). But after 25-some-odd years of having homework every night, I can finally relax after school. I mean, work.
So I disconnect the phone, don my slippers, and reflect on my super-sweet existence.