On living alone

Finally, last night I was able to dig into some of my new magazine subscriptions (last issue for Glamour, sorry publisher, but you just don’t mesh well with me anymore) before “Swingtown” began. Inside my Marie Claire was the holy-hell funniest thing I have ever read (well, besides David Sedaris, of course): Learning to Live Alone.

The article was part of the monthly “Survival Guide” section. Read through the links at the bottom of the article. I can tell you I have more than empathized with some of these.

I currently live by myself. I would feel lonelier if I didn’t have shared walls with my neighbors. At the very least, if I hear Crazy Neighbor’s grandkids running away from his beating belting game and some natural disaster occurred, I wouldn’t die completely alone. I find it difficult being in a one-person household sometimes, perhaps having to do with growing up in a home with seven children. Cooking for one is certainly odd, but I still think I eat for seven. The worst trait I developed after leaving all those kids behind, was that I become extremely territorial over my “stuff.” Yes, I was that person that had expensive stemware and lead glass cereal bowls and never used them, or sisters would come over torturing me with turning picture frames around or like, sitting on the couch (Yes, I was really that bad). I changed all that nonsense (but I still have work to do). And yes, I broke one of my glasses, but I didn’t freak. I learned to laugh out loud at the television, and I found my favorite private space to cry. I still hate having to kill bugs, but have created more of a “him or me” take charge attitude about the insects. (Lysol… gives them a chance).

I also learned that my silence is golden. I have never appreciated calm and serene EVER before in my life. Maybe because I never had peace, quiet or even privacy, for that matter. In fact, I used to be terrified of not having a constant background soundtrack. Now I can enjoy books in silence and the TV goes on sleep timer when I hit the sheets. I get so pissed when I hear someone showing the condo upstairs, knowing the past four tenants have been louder than necessary. (Yes, I brought out the broomstick).

I have a solid past of roommates, cohabitant boyfriends and roommates that become cohabitant boyfriends. Roommates can be fun, but at the same time, can be awful if personalities and alarm clocks don’t mesh. Luckily, I never lost any good friends from bad roommate experiences. I did lose a set of Scrooge’s Night Out martini glasses (never recovered) and a pair of ghost Halloween candles though (burned at a party I didn’t attend. Candles for burning? I know, ridiculous right). Still bitter. And once I had a whore roommate move my stuff out while I was on vacation. But she was already a whore, so no need to waste any more hate there. I always thought guys were easier as roommates.

I look around my condo and see all the material fruits of my labor: my eclectic decorating sense, my furnace that still is not working (blah) and I don’t give a crap (but seriously, maybe I should start dating that Jack’s guy that stands on the corner with the sandwich board), my fridge decorated with all my lovelies, all the travel photos displayed reminding me of escapism and my cereal. Many, many boxes of cereal. All mine.

Far better than the material, are the emotional goods. Serenity. Security. And dammit, some privacy!

It’s all very, very individual minded, but definitely not the workings of a person that feels alone.

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