In between my emotional tangents on feeling as if I'll be single forever, I revel in the joys of living alone. My little piece of the world is the one place I can always go for solace. There is no one asking me for anything, nobody is arguing with me, my supervisor isn't annoying me with his mere presence, and I can watch whatever I want on TV which generally means all the Law & Order episodes my mind can stand. I'm a bit of a neat freak but there is a certain pleasure in knowing I can leave the "draws" I was wearing in the middle of the floor should I chose to do so. I decorate as I please, I pick the paint I want, and when it's time to go to bed, I can curl up in the fetal position or stretch out and take up every bit of mattress space if I want. I've often said one of the best things about living alone is the right to fart unapologetically.
All the benefits aside, I sometimes wonder if I'll be able to live with another person again. Is there a possibility that all this freedom makes me more likely to be impossible to endure? Should the off chance of me experiencing love again arise, I'd hate to ruin it all because of how particular I am about cup placement in the cabinet or the position of the toilet seat (Still, who really doesn't close the cap on the toothpaste these days?). Despite my occasional concern about what kind of cohabitant I will be, I have to believe that the right one for me will make the transition easy. Whatever makes me love him will also help me to relax when I see him using my bathroom towels to wash his car. At least, that's what I think about at night when I'm sprawled across my bed staring at my undies on the floor. Ah, good times.
1 comment:
I do just about everything you mentioned with no qualms--except watch Law & Order (but only because I can never seem to catch it). I still believe in personal space and satisfying my neat freak tendencies. My husband just has to deal with it. And he better NOT even think of using my GOOD towels to dry the car!
That being said, I have to endure countless hours of football, basketball, soccer, golf and tennis, and between my son and his father, my senses are continuously violated by farts wafting through the air.
It's an exchange, as you pointed out, "Whatever makes me love him will also help me to relax..." At the end of the day it's the fruit of your labor and not the labor itself--oh wait, that's actually my thought on pregnancy...
Anyway, this blog post is right on girl! When I am wrapped in my covers at night, sprawled out in the tiny little corner on "my side" of the bed and staring at the big and little boxers my men have left on the floor, I think (dream) of living alone. Then it hits me, another fart, and I'm yanked back into reality.
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