Living the Dream...solo.

I’ve always fantasized about living alone.
Ever since I was a child.
If I lived alone, I thought, I’d blare my music as loud as I want.
I’d watch whatever I wanted on television…rent any movie in the world – the weirder the better! I’d cook myself ANYTHING I damn well pleased for dinner.
Stay up as late as I want!
Go to the bathroom with the door WIDE OPEN!
Take a 4 hour bath and finish an entire novel, completely uninterrupted.
Ah, freedom.
This is not to say I was raised in a strict home by parents who wouldn’t let me do any of this – nor does it mean Life Partner keeps me tied up in a closet upstairs – only allowing me out from 9 to 5 to work,
and then: “Back in your closet with you!”
No.
I can do whatever I want and come and go as I please…but…there’s something about being alone that makes it different.
Something about not having to ask to blare the music. Something about not having to worry that someone might not like barbecued tofu, marinated in Thai peanut sauce.
Something about deciding to up and go for a one hour walk and stop at a café and have a glass of wine – solo – and then go home to an empty house…
Something.
The last four days – I got to live that fantasy.
Life Partner went away to Niagara Falls for work and I stayed home. I know, silly me for staying home.
The first 3 hours were awesome!
I did a few loads of laundry.
I baked my dad a round of Father’s Day cupcakes.
I cranked up the B-52’s and played all the annoying songs on repeat.
It was great.
Then – boredom set in.
I realized hours went by – and I hadn’t uttered a single word out loud.
“I guess I’ll have dinner now,” I said to an empty room.
Even Pluto the Cat was nowhere to be found.
“Yes,” I said aloud again, startled by my own voice. “Dinner. Dinner sounds good.”
I ate the most lonesome dinner in the Universe.
Brown rice with peas, a Tofurky sausage and lima beans. On the side.
I ate in silence. Alone. The sound of my fork scraping the plate irritated me.
The clicking and sucking of me chewing filling the room. I lost my appetite
I turned the TV on.
I flipped, mercilessly.
Fifty-seven channels and nothing on.
Fifty-seven channels and nothing on.
I turned the TV off and put my plate in the dish washer.
Quiet. A fan humming. The fridge running.
I stared at the empty house and the empty house stared back.
I went for a walk.
My second walk that day.
It was a quiet walk. I had to cut it short because I had to pee. I went home and peed with the door open.
It was nothing special.
I poured myself a Margarita and drank it.
I called random friends and left messages on all their machines.
I poured another Margarita.
There’s something hopelessly pathetic about drinking all by your lonesome.
I played on the internet. Scrabble.
I shut the computer off.
Fifty-seven channels and nothing on.
“I guess I’ll go to bed now,” I said, again – startling myself.
And something in the house snapped.
A click.
Could be shifting. Could be a serial killer wearing a frightening mask and armed with a blow torch coming to kill me.
My heart was pounding.
I was wide awake. Unable to sleep.
Pluto started mewing.
What was she seeing?? An intruder? A ghost? A fire?
Dear god, what if there is a fire?
I got up out of bed and walked downstairs, and looked out the windows, expecting to see a masked face staring back at me.
Nothing.
Then - a skunk sprayed. A first in months.
It was putrid. Burned rubber mixed with rotten onions. It filled the house. It was horrifying.
Me – alone – basting in skunk oil – scared, frightened, wishing Life Partner would call his trip short and come home.
It was 10:45pm. Three more nights to go.
I sat by the window and stared.
The hours and minutes dripped by agonizingly slow.
I tried to spend as little time in the house as possible.
I slept with the lights on – full on paranoia and phobia of the dark (which I’ve nursed since I was a child) came back full-force.
I rented a few movies to help lighten the mood. A Fish Called Wanda and Serial Mom with Kathleen Turner.
The DVD player broke.
I was abandoned.
I hated living alone.
I like to think I’d be one of those fiercely independent people who would thrive on his own.
But I’m not.
I need people. I need to have someone else in the house, and while Pluto is fantastic company, Pluto will only give me the time of day when she feels like it.
I am dead to her for 23 hours out of the day. I realize that now, even though I ravish her with affection, treats and cat-nip stuffed toys.
I maintained a steady diet of Margarita’s and semi-sweet chocolate chips the entire time.
I spent a few hours at the Gourmet Emporium. I walked down by the river.
It was all great. Freeing, sure. But – living alone and not talking – not saying a word – eating alone, going to bed alone – even watching a comedy alone…I hated it.
I didn’t laugh. Not once. Even at the funny parts in a movie. I acknowledged that it was funny, but didn’t laugh aloud.
Why is that?
Maybe I’m just one of “those people”.
The ones that do better WITH people.
My hat is off to all the people who live alone…sure there is something to be said about peeing with the door wide open…but I just can't justify the act if there’s no one around to get pissed off at me for it.
I'll forever be the kid who needs someone around to keep me out of trouble...and make sure the creeks and cracks of invisible masked killers don't come and kill me with a blow torch.