I took introduction to psychology in college so I have a general idea of what the term "passive aggressive" means. It wasn't until recently, however, that I really got to witness it in person.

Apparently my husband has decided that this is his newest way to complain about the things I do without actually complaining about them.

Here are a couple of examples, which could easily be compiled with a slew of others for a "passive-aggressive husband reference manual":

The other day my kids and I went out to lunch with a couple of other moms and their kids. I don't eat out for lunch all the time, and this was an impromptu get-together. I had packed my husband a lunch that morning for him to take to work so he had leftovers. When he gets home he tells me this: "The guys at work said, 'Let me get this straight...she gets to eat out for lunch and you have to eat leftovers? Man, that's messed up!' Ha-ha!"

Translation: He's ticked off that I got to eat out and he had to eat leftovers.

My husband recently did some volunteer work with the guys at church that involved a lot of physical labor and when he got home he said, "Bob told me he was so glad that his wife and daughter were out of town because after we finished up he was going to go home and take a long nap without interruption. Ha-ha!"

Translation: He wants to take a nap but knows that we already agreed that he would take the kids so I could get some work done. He's hoping I suggest he takes a long nap and I'll just stay up until two in the morning working.

How do I know it's all passive aggressive? These comments don't even go with the flow of conversation. They come out of nowhere, and he gives a long pause afterward as though he's waiting for me to fall to my knees and beg his forgiveness for going out to eat with my friends/not offering him a four hour nap/whatever else I do that ticks him off.

Imagine? YOU could take The Gold every time!

Inspired by the Olympics and delusional that I somehow can still get my body to look like those women's volleyball contenders, I was thinking...

There are so many things a divorced gal becomes proficient at by necessity — by herself — that there should be some way to get credit for it. Just maybe there should be some kind of Divorced Women's Olympics.

There would be global contenders.

Here are some divisions in which any one of you could take a medal:

Grocery Power Lifting

The Financial Balance Beam

She-Man Provider Competition

Single Mom Relay

Solo Wrestling With Yourself

Set the Table Tennis

Laundry Volleyball

Extreme Soul Searching

My favorite? The Divorce Decathalon!

"Heptathlon" actually is the proper word for the female version of this track and field competition, made up of these seven events: 100 meter hurdles, high jump, shot put, 200 meter sprint, long jump, javelin throw, and the 800 meter run.

As we all know, this sounds like a typical day BEFORE lunch.

The final event would be the "Late Life Luge"...jump on, hang on, close your eyes, say a prayer, take the ride of your life and hope you make it to the finish line in one piece.

The last one might take some extra practice but since you've got nothing to lose — you might as well Go For The Gold!

In my ongoing quest to spend a month happily living solo, I decided to spring for some fresh, fanciful fare.

I've just finished reading French Women Don't Get Fat. It seems the French drink a lot of champagne and that, somehow, ingesting quality ingredients keeps their women from over eating.

I scored beautiful local goat cheese at the Hastings Farmers Market and picked up a lovely pink Brut for under $40.

I don't usually drink alcohol while I'm alone, but I'm in survival mode and the kids don't get back until after Labor Day.

Popping the cork and pouring the Brut into a pink marabou martini glass, purchased at the TJ Maxx bargain rack, life seems sort of okay for the moment.

This was not a reward for spending a month in isolation. I don't need a reward, because I know that a workshop or trip to the Omega Institute is coming up.

However, I'm convinced that every night I spend alone is going to help me be a stronger person.

Admittedly, as I'm having these thoughts, there is a strong craving for a Valium or something else that will make me feel numb.

I used to feel desperate if I didn't have a man in my life. I still feel desperate, but when I compare the relative peace of my little blue house in Hastings to my married life in the mansion, with my over-the-top, angry ex-spouse, I'm satisfied with my decision.

But when I think of the things I gave up to be a hermit, I want to cry. Family and friends from the last 20 years are gathering on Fire Island this month to swim, laugh, and sail together.

Flirting with single guys, and sometimes even the husbands of my friends, chatting with the hunky lifeguards, and making the rounds to Saltaire, Fair Harbor, and Kismet were all part of my married life.

Feeling popular, rich, and loved seemed ingredients for a perfect life. But they're not.

OK, it's a weekend...and my "Guilt-O-Meter" will begin to rise from LIGHTLY GUILTY on Friday night to HOLY MOTHER OF GUILT by Sunday night.

Here how's it works:

Friday:

It all starts mid-Friday for this single mom, with thoughts of weekend "possibilities". It's a running battle of Guilt vs. Pleasure, and it's played out like a really sadistic game show.

Beginning about midday, thoughts of the approaching night swirl through my head... Friends? Romance? Exercise? Romance? Family? Romance?

If I wait too long to make a decision it gets dark out, and I get pooped out.

But Friday night is supposed to be the start of a breather and, with a little extra caffeine, I can gear up for pleasure. Unless it happens to storm, my hair’s too dirty, or I'm too fat...all of which even I can mostly get past these days with my new free wheeling thinking.

If I miss the caffeine, I land on the couch.

If I make it out, I am usually already guilty when I wake up on Saturday.

Saturday:

The GUILT-O-METER starts at "PARTLY GUILTY" the minute I open my eyes and steadily rises. As I zoom around doing errands , thoughts of Needs vs Desires thrash around in my head.

The Needs: things like a car wash, household fixits, food shopping, laundry, manicure, etc., etc., etc. are all pitted directly against…

The Desires: laying at a pool, going on a boat, buddy time with my daughter, and lust. No time for sitting down here. Whichever I choose, I start feeling guilty about not doing the other.

Saturday Night:

The GUILT-O-METER holds steady at "MOSTLY GUILTY" because there's no way I completed everything on the Needs list earlier, and I am either out thinking screw it or I am home on the couch passed out.

Busy people, who surround themselves with four kids, a husband, a wide social circle, a dog, two cats, and countless gerbils, do it because they don't like to be alone. I am one of those people.

My girlfriends, therefore, called me crazy when I told them I was going to go without a date for the next month.

I had no idea it was going to be so hard. Unplugging the phone and suspending the match.com account has not been without ramifications. The first night was horrible.

It reminded me of the first weeks of being separated.

The first thing I did Friday night after work was turn the lights down and turn the radio up. With the scent of candles wafting through the house, I ran a bath and decided to concentrate on "me" time.

Normally the kids would be watching TV in the living room, asking for second helpings of dinner. On nights when the kids are with their Dad, I'd be out for drinks with friends.

Weekends post-divorce, I'd usually be juggling a man, or two.

But not this month. This is solo month and I'm determined to find out what makes me tick.

There is no choice but to succeed. If I can't wrestle some quiet time into my hectic life, then nothing is going to change from the days when I was married.

By 8 o'clock I'd downed two glasses of wine and was feeling weepy. Wine churning around in an empty stomach, and the silence of a childless house, were enough to make me run screaming from the suburbs.

When the divorce was first under way, I'd thought about getting an apartment in the city. My ex told me that he'd make life with the children impossible if I did that, so I'd reneged, a good choice for the kids, but a tough sacrifice for a middle-age woman alone in a house in the middle of August, with nothing but the crickets chirping outside.

It might as well have been Stephen King's Maine.

This came in email from my friend Jan: "My husband, being unhappy with my mood swings, bought me a mood ring the other day. We've discovered that, when I'm in a good mood, it turns green. When I'm in a bad mood, it leaves a damn big red mark on his forehead.

"Maybe next time he'll buy me a diamond."

"That's what you get for having a husband," I replied, once I stopped laughing.

But then, since I'm so smart, what do I get out of not having one, or trying not to, anyway?

I remember a conversation I had with a colleague before I married Ed. My colleague had split from his wife of many years after learning of her affair. (Ouch!)

He asked me, "Sondra, you've been single for a long time. How do you stand it?"

How did I stand it?

First off, I told him, it's incumbent on us to capitalize on whatever state we're in.

The good thing about being single, I told him, is that I owed no one any explanations, or even any thought, about how I lived my life: when and where I worked, how to spend or save my money.

I could stay up all night watching old movies while eating crackers in bed, then hop on a flight to wherever suited my mood, and my finances.

I made it sound good, and you know what? It is good.

Now here I am on the other side. I'm pretty sure I'd feel different if I had kids instead of pets. And money is definitely tight in this early-post-Ed era: no more cable TV, which means I have a lot fewer movie all-nighters. Or crackers.

Right now, a spur-of-the-moment jaunt is likely to end in a local park.

But it is my life again, to do with as I please, and as best I can. I neither blame nor am beholden to anybody else for the way it works out.

You know, I'm not into diamonds. But if I want a ring, I can save up and buy the one I choose, rather than hope I like what somebody else picks out for me.

And that's good, too.

As memories of six days of sea and jungle explorations sink in, my eyes open to an old truth about myself.

Years ago I toyed with thoughts of Peace Corp service, working my way around the globe, or a job "in country" with an NGO. When my ability was questioned by parents fearful of such a life, and as my debts rose, I abandoned those dreams. I came to think them ridiculous. (Handy mechanism, to reject away what you actually love but cannot have. It makes the not-having easier to bear!)

But seeking cross-cultural connections and serving others are the only things I've ever felt called to do. Now I'm curious: Can I tap into the strength of purpose I've always had down deep and honor my interests and pursue my dreams?

These days I have more tools in my toolbox and take much better care of my emotional self. Debt can be managed, and my relationship with Rob doesn't have to keep me stuck. Where before I saw obstacles, I now see creative ways to manage concerns. I see opportunity.

With Rob's evolving understanding and acceptance that I can't play the role of a typical wife, and a bit of saving and investigation, I might just be able to get what I always wanted.

This would not be an easy life, to be sure. But fearless exploration of my interior as I trek through new exteriors, and a strong home base from which to depart and return, no longer seem unattainable. Unconventional perhaps, but not unachievable.

Traveling together. This opens up all kinds of possibilities for discovery. You're really together when traveling. Proximity and the logistics of this trip means that Certain Things will come up.

We'll be hiking. I have no stamina. At all. This was not true when I was going to yoga every day, but that's lapsed somewhat, and my wind was the first thing to go. I'm going to be the sad little puffing girl who can't keep up.

It's going to be hot. I get sweaty. I always feel like I'm the sweatiest person in the room. When the room is hot, that is. For a brief, shining couple of months, I worked with a guy who was sweatier than me and we bonded in our ickiness. No one likes sweaty. I've been assured that everyone thinks they're the sweatiest person in the room, but I don't think that's true.

There's the bench thing. I love benches. I can't pass a bench strategically aimed at a scenic spot without sitting on it, at least for a few seconds. I mean, if someone took the trouble to aim a bench at something, the least I can do is sit there for a minute and appreciate it.

Thank God he already knows about the peeing thing. I have no problem peeing outside, but I'm going to have to ask him to cover his ears.

Luckily, the whole video game thing, which I have kept impressively under wraps thus far, will not be an issue whilst in another country.