On Going Stag

I’ve always had roommates. From the nice older folks who I still owe somewhere in the ballpark of 18-22 years’ worth of rent (I promise I’m good for it… I just need a few more days to get the cash together), to college buddies, to randos in study abroad, to significant others. I think it’s great. I tend to be a bit of a homebody so having someone to live with really keeps me from painting a face on a volleyball and naming it Wilson. Of course, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live alone. The freedom to leave your bed unmade for weeks at a time, to go months between cleaning the bathroom, to only own 1 plate, 1 bowl, 1 fork, 1 spoon, and 1 knife! Well, recently I had the opportunity to live on my own for a week…and boy do I have some thoughts!

I have to start out by drawing a very important distinction: this is completely different from housesitting. When you’re housesitting, it’s someone else’s home. I don’t feel nearly as comfortable leaving 1 million shirts, socks, shorts, and jackets laying around someone else’s house as my own. Plus, they don’t say “there’s no place like home” just for shits and giggles.

Back to the topic at hand, my girlfriend and I have lived in this apartment for going on two years, and due to the pandemic, we’ve both been here basically the entire time. At the time of writing, she’s currently on a gorgeous tropical vacation with her best friend that she completely deserves and I am not at all jealous of (not even one single atom in my body is seething with envy that she is lounging in paradise while I sit on our couch, which while nice, is decidedly not a tropical vacation). Obviously, it can be nice to get a little space from the people you live with, it gives you a chance to miss them, to appreciate how bright and cheery they make your life. But also, I spent like 3 hours making chili last night and I made the kitchen a complete fucking mess and since I’m the only one here, you know what I did after that? I didn’t clean up a single thing.

Don’t get me wrong, we leave dishes and messes all the time in this house. But there’s a fundamental difference when you know that absolutely no one will see your mess. It’s a kind of freedom I can only equate to what being a ghost must be like: floating around, messing things up, completely free from perceived judgment.

But then, there’s nobody to taste the chili you made, nobody to show that funny meme to, nobody to ask what the difference between baking powder and baking soda is. You realize that living without your roommate is like living in a house where half the lights don’t work. It’s just so much less inviting, less cheery, less like home. And then you realize they’ll be home in a few days and you have to start cleaning now because man did I ever make a mess!

So, what about you? Do you prefer living with roommates or living alone?