If you are thinking you are going to read some kind of glamorous post I’ll warn you before you get in too deep. This is not it.
I have lived alone for four years of my post collegiate life. After going abroad and having a (bedroom) space to myself, I knew that I would not have a roommate again until I was headed down that path to holy matrimony. I haven’t regretted my decision at all, but I have learned plenty about myself in the process.
After living in a house bustling with people (and later in the dorms that were the same way) it was GREAT to have a space of my own. I didn’t have to make small talk in the morning or in the evening. I didn’t have to worry about keeping my space to some shared standard, and I didn’t have to worry about coming in and finding someone had eaten the last of *insert coveted food item here*. When I moved into my first apartment, I relished my cleaning day like it was my own personal holiday. Sure, I was doing work, but I was cleaning up my space to my standard. It was great.
Then the bugs came.
I lived in a garden unit apartment and felt like the bugs came with the rent. Don’t get me wrong; they weren’t CONSTANT visitors but the fact that they were centipedes already meant that one visit was visit enough. I’d be getting ready to take a shower and find that someone had beat me to the punch.
When I lived in all the bustle, I could call one of the men in my house and play damsel in distress. I’d getting a friendly ribbing, the bug would be gone, and I could get back to my shower. Living by myself (in a city 5-6 hours from home) I lost that. I quickly got over my aversion to killing bugs (and invested in some indoor outdoor spray).
Same thing with little “do it yourself”projects. Growing up, I loved to watch or help my dad fix anything. When my brothers were nowhere to be found, I was handing my dad a wrench and trying to soak up the knowledge he’d gained from his large collection of “How to” manuals. When I was home, I was first helper. Since I have been away I find myself fixing by trial and error or calling my dad to figure out how to fix something (it doesn’t help that I have McGuyver tendencies and don’t even seem to have the right equipment). I call my dad about my loose handle bars for my bike and he immediately tells me I need a MAN and a ratchet with an Allen wrench because I can’t get it tight enough.
I told you all earlier I have a long distance boyfriend. Though I do know/have met men here, I don’t feel like I should have to call some random man to come and do that for me (besides, I got a friend who has been promising to help me finish mounting my TV on the stand for what feels like YEARS now). I have adopted the philosophy that if I can’t do it or a female friend can’t help me do it (or the maintainance man at my complex can’t do it), it won’t get done.
In the meantime, I’m steadily building up my tool collection and looking forward to the day when I can pick my damsel in distress moments.
*Cue Jill Scott “I need you”*