One Month Without a Roommate
My mortality has never been such a point of personal awareness as it was during the past 30 days without a roommate and yet, even fear of dying couldn’t outweigh the perks of a month of solitude.
The recluse dream came to me by pure serendipity. In one of those rare instances where the planets aligned, my roommate of 4 years needed to move out at the beginning of March while my future roommate starts in April. Due to a bit of creative financial sorcery/cooperation on all three of our behalves, I was positioned well-enough to get through the month without having to sell my molars on the black market to cover rent. And besides, I figured the amount of money I’d save in toilet paper alone would probably add up.
Shower scheduling had never been an issue for me and my roommate. We both followed proper Netflix etiquette and were mutually compatible with each other’s guests. I often get home late and spend weekends out of the apartment, so it took a few days for the beauty of my aloneness to settle in.
When it did, the Royal We and I had a one-woman solo celebration.
Gone were the sneaky-possum bathroom scurries after undressing only to realize that I didn’t have a towel, one arm covering my chest while high five-ing a fig leaf over my full frontal. Leisurely naked strolls took their place.
Gone were any weird smells. I don’t cook, which means no dirty pots to not wash nor leftovers forgotten in the ‘fridge until they spoil. Gone were moments of frustration over loud music or messy living rooms. And to no fault of the other human who deserves just as much as I do to exist in the same space we both pay for, gone was the feeling of coming home and being mad when the apartment wasn’t empty.
But somewhere in that emptiness — and do not mistake this for loneliness, because I, while social, am confident that I’d thrive in quarantine — out came my full crazy.
Every situation became a matter of life or death. In the shower, for example, I began picturing all of the various ways I could slip and fall. Or drown. Someone accidentally keyed into my apartment and so I slept with the largest knife I own next to my bed for three nights. No microwaves — they breed burned mouths and potential explosions. Hard candies were out of the question. I could choke! Likewise, all water had to be sipped slowly and carefully.
Every time the doorbell rang I seized up like a rabbit who’s just been eyed by a hawk, and each delivery person was made to answer three questions about my order, and a Sphinxian riddle.
One night, the paranoia kicked in so strongly that I grabbed a lacrosse stick in tandem with the bed knife and prodded under couches while shouting at any potential killers hiding behind curtains.
And still I relished in an apartment all to myself.
They say that your actions in solitude speak volumes about who you really are: you’re not putting on a show, there’s no need to be polite, not meter for acting civilized. So what did I really learn about myself during this short lived experience besides my fight over flight instincts?
Mostly that I wasn’t alone at all. Yesterday I came face to face via windows with a family of three who must have just moved in to the apartment directly across the street from me. I was naked. They were eating breakfast. And it was instantly obvious: for an entire month, they saw everything.
