Now that I live with 7 people after living alone all those years, I still can’t say which I prefer; living alone or with others.
There’s something I miss quite keenly about my little, old place. A vague sense that I’m pining for something keeps washing over me, and I’m trying to sort it out. Part of it, I think, is tied up with losing the ‘independent woman, living alone in a cool little space, in a cool little area’ identity. I miss the beauty of the house; I miss opening the dark, heavy, wooden, front-door and looking down the light-filled hallway with the glowing wooden floorboards and the solid, white, limestone walls. I pang, on occasion, for my solitude; I miss the silence and the privacy (and, I miss not having to be quiet when I can’t sleep).
At the same time, my god, I’m flourishing in the share-house. I love it. It’s much less fraught than some of the angst-ridden share-houses of my 20s. People, mostly, stay out of one another’s shit. We BBQ and drink together on weekends. Occasionally we cook together or for one another. We throw a spontaneous surprise party together very well. We watch sunsets and sink piss together. We take turns being the one who gets stupendously drunk. We be guinea pigs for batches of brewing olives. We go out for dinners and beers and walks and swims, and generally co-exist quite harmoniously. There’s things that shit me; my heart sometimes sinks when I’m on the back porch in quiet anticipation of sunset and someone comes home and joins me. I bristle, a little, when I’m asked what I’m up to, where I’ve been, or where I’m going. And there’s always that one who slacks off on their share of cleaning. Maybe ‘cause I’m older, maybe ‘cause I have no real responsibility (all I do is pay rent!), or maybe because I know I’m leaving, I’m just loving it all.