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August 28th | 2012
Living alone has many pluses, but there are benefits to cohabitation, too, I recalled yesterday.
Until the door knob fell off, I adored living by myself. “Why,” I often asked myself in the mirror, “would anybody willingly live any other way?”
When you rule your own living space you have freedom: you can eat what you want, wear what you want, and pile your stuff any darn place you want not to mention that it doesn’t matter if you wake up looking like a dewy-skinned love goddess or a wreck. Your world, your time and your body are all yours, and you’re not obliged to share them. Yippee.
When living on my own, my plants take on deep meaning and so does my phone. I dance more, I am happier, and my productivity soars; I drink wine less, write in my journal more, and read at least half of everything I’ve been meaning to for ages. My food costs go way down, and I only eat when I want to.
The lifestyle fits me so well that lately I’ve been questioning the need for 24/7 romance–which tends to get in the way of my life goals and my career, all the more since I work at home. I love dating, but living with a boyfriend, having somebody else so close in my world, has proven distracting. I often lose focus of everything except “us” and “him,” and, too often, my long list of faults.
The truth is that while my boyfriends typically say knowing me greatly improves their world, I rarely feel edified living with them. This may have to do with astrology: most of my recent boyfriends have been Virgos, a notoriously finicky sign, and not a good match for eccentric Aquarians such as moi.
My cooking is sub-par, it turns out, my apartment cluttered, my fashion strange, online casino I over-pack, and my sleep schedule is erratic, etc, etc. In other words, living together (at least with Virgos) has taught me that I prefer to live alone–to reside amid towers of books, dress in flowing Indian garb if I want, pack as much as I need when I travel, sleep when I’m tired and to read and write through the night when I’m not.
I’ve become so enamored of my solo lifestyle that I thought until recently that I’d be plenty happy to live by myself for the rest of my days.
However, yesterday when I walked into the bathroom, shut the door and the handle came off in my hand—and it took two hours before the doorman heard my frantic wails—I had reason to reconsider the wisdom of my live-alone stance.
Over lunch, during which I downed several glasses of wine to calm my frayed nerves, I decided that I am again open to the idea of having a roommate of the romantic variety. Well, as long as he’s not a Virgo.
Until then, I´m not stepping behind a closed door without taking my phone.
— Grace Keyes