Living Alone
This is what it’s like living alone.
Sometimes I make a little guttural noise, deep from my throat, just to hear a voice. Sometimes I’ll yet out, “BAH!” Or maybe I’ll call everyone in my favorites until one of them answers. Usually Kelley or Alison.
When I’m in one of these funky, freaky, haven’t-talked-to-a-human-all-day moods, I like to go outside for a walk and listen to a podcast or drive to Trader Joe’s and bathe in the joy of each employee’s spirit.
The first time I lived alone was when I went to grad school in Texas, and I was sad every day for two years. A deep, soul-grinding kind of sad. To pass the time, I made calendars on sheets of computer paper and crossed each day out with a giant red X. Mostly I walked 10 miles a day.
I had friends, but in our hearts, I think we always knew it was circumstantial. I missed my family, and I wept for them. I missed the trees in our backyard, AA batteries in the garage, not being responsible for dinner. My family was half the country away. I was never going to stay in Texas; it’s so dry and flat and Baptist. Someone at a whiskey distillery called me a Yankee because I asked them, “How are you guys?”
How could I stay?
The second time I lived alone was now. I’m not scared anymore—well, mostly. It’s hard to be scared living right in the middle of suburbia, in the city which I grew up. Everything is familiar. I didn’t realize what a privilege familiarity was until I was somewhere entirely unfamiliar to me. I get scared at night, though—if I’m walking up from the parking lot to my apartment, if I’m frantic and drop my keys right outside my door, if I’m in the shower and hear a door slam. Is someone breaking in? Is this it? Most of that fear stems from being a woman. It comes from the knowledge of being physically weaker, of having been catcalled, of having been groped. I know I can’t fight an intruder, and I’m always waiting to be violently attacked. Women: We’re always braced for an attack, wondering how we can outsmart or outrun a stronger, faster man. Should I take self-defense classes?
Much of living alone is contemplating what I would actually do if slapped in the face with true danger or death. If I drop dead in this apartment, I want it to be immaculately clean. I don’t want the investigators or EMTs to find an iota of dust, a strand of loose hair. If I am murdered, then I suppose there will be blood, but all my surfaces will have been wiped down with bleach or Mrs. Meyers spray. The kitchen floor will have been freshly Cloroxed. The trash will have been emptied. I swear I do all my chores!
Should I leave a note?
This is what it’s like living alone.
