Figuring it all out

Three weeks ago, I moved out of my condo and like any unsupervised adult, I waited until the final hours were dwindling down to begin packing up my life into ratty, and slightly unstable cardboard boxes. Alone in my living room, I surveyed the mountain of cardboard that was carelessly chosen to be carted along with me into the next chapter of my unwritten life;  and as I bid adieu to the waterfront view I was leaving behind, I silently cursed myself in the still summer night:

I thought I’d have it all figured out by now. 

The only thing that calmed my fragile nerves besides the cold Corona in my hand, was knowing that nowadays most twentysomethings thirtysomethings have the same recurring nightmarish thoughts. The truth is, most of us don’t have a clue what we are doing. We are all just walking around with out-of-sight hands shoved deep within our pockets, where our anxious fingers can be found tightly crossed. We’re all silently pleading for that long overdue Aha moment to finally show up, or bump into us like a familiar stranger on the street, quickly ushering us to the next phase of our lives.

A year ago, in the midst of a personal crisis, I found myself temporarily homeless and sleeping like a battered dog on my brother’s couch. One afternoon, my brother came home with a brand new typewriter and I did what any writer would do, waist deep in the depths of despair — I wrote.

I wrote lists of things that I wanted to accomplish, I wrote hate letters to those who had attempted to destroyed me and I wrote thank you letters to the people who had literally yanked me to my feet. And when all the Hilroy paper had run out, I ripped up the brown paper bag that carried my therapeutic vessel home and I wrote out my favourite last two lines from Mary Oliver’s, The Summer Day, and this time I addressed the letter to myself:

During the last tumultuous year, with its typeface slanted and letters fading, this scrap of a letter has found a permanent spot on my bedside table. It’s the first thing I see in the morning, and the last words I whisper out to myself at night. When I moved into my new place three weeks ago, the letter from my former self was the first thing I unpacked from those ratty and unstable cardboard boxes.

It arrived, crumbled and slightly battered with no Aha attached.

S.

Living alone

Have you ever lived on your own without a roommate or partner?

This year was a year of firsts for me and added to my lengthy list was living solo. The night before I was to move into my new place, I remember feeling this overwhelming sense of panic — I was utterly terrified to be all alone.

Those feelings of dread quickly evaporated as soon as I realized I could do whatever the hell I wanted. You know that scene from Home Alone when Kevin McCallister wakes up to find he’s all alone, rejoices at the top of the stairs, runs around the house like a lunatic, fires off Buzz’s BB gun, and then caps off the night by chillin’ out with a gangster flick while eating a bunch of junk food?  Well, that’s the essence of living alone, and it’s utterly blissful!

There are a multitude of perks to solitude. Walkin’ around in the buff is one of them. Occupying the entire closet is pretty amazing, too. I ate chips in my bed once (I got crumbs everywhere) and then I went all badass and slept in my sheets anyways, just because I could. You only have to wash your own laundry. But that nasty bit about folding it and putting it away afterwards, that part stays the same, which is truly unfortunate.

I don’t know, there is just something about being able to create your very own pigsty and then having the freedom to roll around in it for awhile without a pair of judgmental eyes burning into the back of your lazy head. Or rising out of bed early on an ordinary yet promising Sunday morning and watching the sun come up in silence as you drink your coffee and map out your day — the way you want to live it — that feels pretty incredible.

“When I grow up and get married, I’m living alone”

- Kevin McCallister, Age 8. 

S.