Do you enjoy talking to yourself and practicing fancy accents and/or strange noises? Do you like to spend your free time pretending you are in a fake debate telling off your asshole coworkers? Have you ever dreamed of making nachos naked? Do you wish you had more time and creative space to practice twerking without judgement? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you should consider living alone.
And if you answered yes to all of these questions, please be my best friend.
For the first time in my life I am living without roommates and it is awesome. At first I worried I might get lonely or spend my nights trying to scare myself by googling images of the Chupacabra, but I seem to always find something to talk about with myself (and I don’t think the Chupacabra can get in my apartment, right?) I practice my public speaking skills and brush up on vocabulary by doing this thing called “What I Wish I Would Have Said” to that driver/lady in front of me at the store/dude at work who knows EVERYTHING. I have reawakened my love for singing along with Fleetwood Mac while strolling around my 1 bedroom apartment (usually without clothes) while delivering wisdom offerings that will surely blow my yoga students’ minds one day.
I don’t mean to rub it in or anything, especially since I know that some of you are only reading this because you are killing time waiting for your roommate to get out of the fucking shower already. Or you have barricaded yourself up in your room waiting for your roommate and her boyfriend to stop finger banging each other in the kitchen long enough so you can just get a bowl of cereal (is that so much to ask?) I know what sharing space with another human can do to you, so I will not boast.
When you live alone you don’t have to be surrounded by things from the housewares department at Ross that say generic messages like “Live, Laugh and Dance in the Rain Like No One Is Watching”, unless of course, you want to. Currently, I would describe my design aesthetic as what you would get if a band of gypsies breezed through town carrying their wares on their back and after a night of shrooming, they awoke to find, much to their dismay, that they were in Scottsdale, Arizona, and skipped town, taking only what they could carry on their backs, leaving me with their hanging lanterns, vases, postcards and hand-written notes. It feels impossibly me.
When you live by yourself you have to enjoy your own company. You are forced to accept your own shit. You can’t try to pawn stuff off onto your roommates. The answer to burning questions such as, “Whose bra is on the table?”, “Haven’t we already listened to this song 6 times?”, “Wasn’t it your turn to get toilet paper?” and everyone’s passive aggressive favorite, “Oh hey girl, were you gonna do these dishes or were you just gonna let them sit here for a week?” always comes back to me. Yes, that’s my bra on the table, yes, we are listening to this song again, yes, I was supposed to get toilet paper, and yes, those are my dirty dishes. Living alone is superb practice for being a Grown Up, because you learn that if you don’t do something, it is straight up not getting done. For example, as I sit and type this, my recycling bin is begging to be taken to the dumpster and I have a mirror that has been sitting on a stool for 2 weeks now that needs to be hung up. I can let the bin continue to overflow, I can call someone sexy to come over and help me do it, or I can just do it myself. The best part is that I will probably let the bin sit for a little while and then when I’m ready I’ll take it out on my own without anyone leaving me a note or questioning what I did all day.
It’s not that I’m totally anti-social, in fact, I interact with humans all day long, teaching them dance, making them lattes and listening to coworkers overshare about their lives. I have had roommates before and it was great. I’ve been lucky to live with fantastic people who are perfectly content to spend a night sitting on their ass with some cheese dip and the Chappelle show on DVD or having dance parties so awesome that the neighbors complained (they were just jealous). I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel bad about myself because I am in my late twenties/almost thirties, single, and I am happy to live alone. I occasionally get these fake sympathetic faces from people that seem to say things like, “Awww, its so sad that you are so weird and no one wants to live with you and you’re gonna die alone.” And I’m all, fuck that, I like living in my own space where no one steals my tampons or leaves me passive aggressive notes about how I suck at composting or accidentally forgets to tell me that she has invited 2 of her friends to stay with us for a month. I don’t have to deal with that nonsense anymore.
So, please don’t feel bad for me because I live alone. I happen to love it and I’m pretty sure I’m getting more awesome. Having said all that, I would love to have you over. Just let me know before you come over so I can get my bra off the table.