When I was in my early twenties, I bought a four bedroom house in Seattle and rented out rooms to pay my mortgage. One person I rented to worked for Amazon. She would write product descriptions from home, sitting at her computer, chain smoking. Her dog was wonderful, and she almost never went out.
Occasionally, she would disappear for a few days, and bring back stories of drugs and orgies, but the rest of the time she just drank light beer and kept to herself.
I think about her often, how odd her life seemed to me at the time. I was in my twenties, out almost every single night, surrounded by friends, living it up.
Now that I'm older, I get it. It takes a month to recover from a bender like she had, and I've never even had a bender like hers.
I find myself thinking of her when I'm home for more than a few days, wondering if I've become her, minus the orgies and chain smoking, of course. At the time, her solitude made me sad, and I worried about her. Now I understand the joy of home, the quiet of a night in, and I think I am more like her than I ever suspected.
Solitude isn't a problem, as I once thought it was. I go days without leaving my house now, and I'm still never bored. As much as I love adventure, spending time alone, creating a perfect nest, spending hours in the bath, reading and catching up on the series I missed during my no television years is just as much fun. She had it right, and maybe better than I do because she had that wonderful dog.
Home isn't the prison I once thought it was. I alway marveled at the fact that she wore eyeliner every day, even though she never went out. She was always nice, and I wish I could remember her name.
Occasionally, she would disappear for a few days, and bring back stories of drugs and orgies, but the rest of the time she just drank light beer and kept to herself.
I think about her often, how odd her life seemed to me at the time. I was in my twenties, out almost every single night, surrounded by friends, living it up.
Now that I'm older, I get it. It takes a month to recover from a bender like she had, and I've never even had a bender like hers.
I find myself thinking of her when I'm home for more than a few days, wondering if I've become her, minus the orgies and chain smoking, of course. At the time, her solitude made me sad, and I worried about her. Now I understand the joy of home, the quiet of a night in, and I think I am more like her than I ever suspected.
Solitude isn't a problem, as I once thought it was. I go days without leaving my house now, and I'm still never bored. As much as I love adventure, spending time alone, creating a perfect nest, spending hours in the bath, reading and catching up on the series I missed during my no television years is just as much fun. She had it right, and maybe better than I do because she had that wonderful dog.
Home isn't the prison I once thought it was. I alway marveled at the fact that she wore eyeliner every day, even though she never went out. She was always nice, and I wish I could remember her name.
Comments
Post a Comment