I’m a solitary person. I crave alone time and silence, and sometimes I’m much happier than I probably should be to indulge in as many hours as I can get. I’ll let the cat into my space, but only because he’s mostly silent and only seems to care about positioning himself on a comfortable lap. Plus, he keeps my legs warm while I read.
I think I came out of the womb this way. If not, the transformation must have happened sometime before my fifth year. I have no memory of being any other way. I prefer to have my nose stuck in a book or my pencil filling in the lines of a notebook or my head filled with the music of my favorite songs. I could drive alone down the highway for days on end and never miss the company. I dance in the driver’s seat. I smile at tunes I haven’t heard in ten years. If I start to get drowsy, I put on a thrilling audiobook, the likes of which I would never in a million years sit down to read in book form. I fell in love with Dean Koontz that way, and I’ve never been certain whether the affection stemmed from his writing skill or the fact that I heard his writing for the first time while I was driving down a road alone and utterly blissful.
My best relationships have always been with people who had other things going on, whose lives were full, who didn’t need me to entertain them…ever. I can be funny, but it’s usually an accident unless I’m doing it on paper. I’m boring, really. At least, I can’t imagine why I’d be remotely interesting to anyone other than myself.
Seriously, I read a lot.
I feel bad sometimes. The kids come into the living room when Hubby’s at work and it’s just us, and they look at me sitting in silence with the cat and a book on my lap, and if they don’t actually shake their heads in wonder or disgust or both, then I can feel them wanting to. For as much as Step-daughter seems to enjoy her alone time, she still seems to need occasional visits from friends, evenings at football games, hours spent sitting silently in the company of others with the TV playing something ridiculous. I know she doesn’t really get my silence or my solitude-by-choice anymore than most other people do. She probably wonders if I have depression issues. Little does she know what joy my alone time actually brings.
I don’t think I’ve ever really discussed the solitude thing with Hubby, but I think that if I ever started out a conversation with him by saying the words “Jesus, I love being quiet and alone,” he might just fall prostrate on the floor and once more profess his undying love. In fact, I’d bet all the money in my pockets that my sweet husband feels the same way about his much-too-infrequent alone time as I do about mine. And he’s probably just as grateful as I am to have married someone who knows how to be still, who knows how to be there without demanding attention or any upkeep whatsoever.
I am a solitary person. I’m a solitary person who is happiest in the company of other solitary people, particularly when they smell as delicious as the man I married.
Inspired by The Daily Post prompt Solitary.