My Ode to Solitude

Let me start by saying that I adore my beau. We have lots of fun together. And we spend a lot of time in each other’s company. Let me also add that one of the things I love about him is that his house is more than 15 miles away from mine. There’s something about being able to come home and completely be myself that’s so lovely. Living alone affords lots of creature comforts.

• I can come home and change into my uniform of sloppy sweater and Care Bear pajama pants without worrying about being sexy (because, believe me, it’s not a sexy look).
• After a long day at work, I can decide against cooking and have a meal of string cheese, gummi bears, and wine with nary an eyebrow raised.
• My pets aren’t forced to divide their loyalties.
• I can use all of the hot water.
• I can sleep in the middle of the bed on all of the pillows.
• I can up my chances of going to the Olympics in the Sliding Across the Kitchen Floor in Socks category through constant practice.
• My cooking failures don’t have witnesses (I was the only one in attendance for the Empanada Disaster of 2009).
• I can watch all of the embarrassing TV I want. My beau would never sit through an entire episode of Project Runway, much less an entire season (don’t even get me started on the embarrassments that can be found in my Netflix queue).
• Two words: remote control.
• I can conduct all beauty rituals in private. In public, my roots are magically nonexistent, my eyebrows magically shaped, and my toenails magically painted. Why ruin the mystery?
• Nobody has to hear my annoying renditions of popular songs when I insert my pets’ names where the lyrics call for baby.
• When I dance around the house, the potential for injuring someone with my flailing limbs is greatly reduced when nobody else is there.
• I choose all of the décor. I can put owl decals on the living room wall and paint the whole place Pepto-Bismol pink if I want to (though, really, yuck).
• When I’m sick, nobody has to bear witness to a coffee table that’s piled with crumpled Kleenexes and mini-donut wrappers.

After reviewing the above, I’m pretty sure my beau is fine with that 15-mile distance as well.