The Single Life, Redux.
I have never lived alone. Which is weird, I think, for a nearly 28-year old, independent woman to realize, but I’ve just always had either family or roommates or a significant other in my living space.
This week, however, I’m getting to have a little peek at what it would have been like to live alone. It’s kinda nice, actually. If I wasn’t so attached to Andrew, I might go get my own little studio apartment and keep it sparkling clean and keep fresh flowers on the table and softly scented vanilla candles burning in the windows.
Last night I had a four-hour cleaning tantrum and, when it was all over, I flopped down on my freshly vaccuumed couch and beamed proudly at my clean apartment, letting the crisp evening air from the opened windows cool the sweat on my skin. I lit candles and read Carson McCullers and thought my thoughts. I resolved to buy some fresh flowers on my way home and put them in a big glass pitcher on the table.
Why don’t I do these things in the house I cohabit with Andrew? I dunno, I guess when I’m alone, I see mess as MY mess, so I clean it up. When I live with Andrew, I see it as OUR mess, and Andrew’s a notorious procrastinator, so I’m all, “meh. I guess we’ll do it later,” and it inevitably piles up. As for the flowers, I think it’s knowing Andrew would see it as a waste of money. And as for thinking my thoughts silently, it’s that I tend to bounce everything I’m thinking off whoever will listen. Being alone affords me this wonderful opportunity to perfect the art of conversation with myself.
I liked the feeling of slipping under the covers of a freshly-made bed with a book, and having an extra pillow to hug onto. I’m not a cuddly sleeper, and never have been — it’s all very “my sleep bubble, your sleep bubble.” But I like having something smaller than a person to hug. Last night, I was able to fall hard into sleep, the fan humming in the corner of the room creating this wonderful white noise. I woke up in the middle of the bed. It was a stark contrast from the day before, when I slept fitfully on the couch for a mere two hours. I feel downright The-Hills-Are-Alive-With-The-Sound-Of-Music refreshed this morning.
Don’t get me wrong—I adore my husband and miss him terribly. But I am starting to enjoy the solitude, after two nights of sulking. I have an invitation to go out with friends this evening, but I am having such a renewed love affair with my apartment that I must admit I kind of want to sit in my pristine apartment, sighing and lovingly batting my eyes at it. I may even coo sweet nothings.