Tonight I decided to compile a list of things that don’t suck about living alone. Because let’s face it: I signed a one-year lease and I still have a good eight months (at least) to go. Might as well make the best of it. So, things that don’t suck! Drum roll, please…
1) I can do whatever I like on the weekends. I’ve been thinking of this a lot lately because it seemed Jackson and I always had to buddy up and attack all errands together. Was going to Staples such a romantic experience that we had to do it as a team? And as much as I loved his family (still do), there were times when it would have been nice to opt out of some family obligations. But in all fairness, I really did love that stuff and I often looked forward to getting together with all his cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, and grandparents to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and christenings.
2) I get to keep all the leftovers I make for dinner. That’s right: more tofu and seitan-y goodness in my tummy. I have a problem figuring out portions when I cook so I was never quite able to make a meal for two with enough leftovers for two. So whatever was left over, I would wrap and give to him so he could bring it into work the next day. In a brown bag which I had labeled with his name and a heart, because apparently I liked to think of him as my five-year-old son. I also can’t tell you how many omelets I screwed up when I first started living alone again because I was so accustomed to making them with three eggs as opposed to two, which seemed to throw off the whole balance of breakfast.
3) I can sing and dance as loud as I like to Tori Amos, Ani Difranco, and Brandi Carlile, artists Jackson never really understood or took a liking to. I was never that upset that he didn’t want to see any of them in concert with me because going to see them was an experience I enjoyed immensely and he would have sucked the fun right out of it. But in all honesty, these women REALLY understand me and that‘s why I show my support with interpretive dance in my living room. “I am writing graffiti on your body, I am drawing the story of how hard we tried.” I mean, really. It’s just fucking brilliant.
4) I can wear obnoxious patchwork pajama pants to bed again. Okay, ladies. You’re getting your groove on with a special guest and he spends the night. You head to the closet and pull out your sleepwear. Do you grab a) your pajama bottoms with cartoon bugs all over them (the ones that say “don’t let the bed bugs bite.” Don’t make fun–I own a pair of these), b) the cutest boy shorts and the tightest tank top you can find, or c) nothing! You sleep in the buff because it’s sexier that way. If you answered either b) or c) you are misleading your romantic interest. I did this. But Jackson learned soon enough that I owned a lot more embarrassing pajama pants than I did sexy lingerie. Because I’m sorry, but I’m not sleeping with a thong up my ass! It’s just not comfortable and I don’t care what you say about new satin whatsits or no-show panties. See, I’m telling you this because I want to lay all the cards on the table. I do not iron in high heels nor do I wear cheekies with an apron. It ain’t happenin’ (go see Mariah. I heard she does the tread master in stiletto pumps). I do, however, have an adorable pair of pajama pants with snowflakes that will make you SWOOOOOOON!
5) I don’t have to shave my legs every five minutes. There’s really nothing more to say on that, but it’s quite liberating in a Jane-of-the-Jungle kind of way.
6) I can go back to my sleeping (or rather, snoozing) habits. Pre-Jackson, I had developed a system that would soon become the envy of my friends (not really) and it would drive my roomies up the wall (that much is true. And there are quite a few of you of you out there so feel free to chime in!). I like to set my alarm clock for a full hour and 20 minutes before I get out of bed. I listen to the radio for an hour (I have one of those iHome things), then it shuts off automatically and I lay* in bed, thinking about how much I don’t want to move for the next 20 minutes. Once I made the mistake of doing this when I lived with Jackson and he dumped a glass of cold water on my right ear. I’m not even kidding. Oh, it feels good to snooze again…
* lie? Damnit, I always fuck that up. And yes, this is what I do for a living, but I‘m not looking up the rule in my grammar book, so suck it.
7) The toilet seat. This topic makes my blood boil just thinking about it. Why was it so impossible for Jackson to remember to put it down before leaving the bathroom? I haven’t officially taken a poll, but I think it’s safe to assume that women don’t like to stare into the mouth of the toilet bowl when they walk into their bathroom. There was also an issue with the toilet paper rolls but this was covered on an episode of Mad About You and Helen Hunt does a very good job of explaining her disapproval. Anyway, that was also annoying. But toilet seat wins for blood boiling.
And that’s all I got. Please feel free to send me your reasons of why it doesn’t suck to live alone! I’ll even post the good ones here.