single living

M has gone away for work this week. It's not an uncommon occurrence. As a designer, part of his job is to travel to far-flung corners of the world for research. It sounds especially glamorous to those not going--retail exploration in Tokyo, a tour of the world's largest Rolls-Royce collection in France, sampling lager in Brazil. I would trade my left arm to do any one of those things as part of my job, but the reality is that he's typically jet-lagged, towing a client around, and run ragged from morning till night. Yet as the one constantly left at home, I'm hard-pressed to feel sympathy for him.

Though as much I might envy his professional gallivanting, it's not as if I'm sitting at home wondering what to do with myself. I'm afforded the opportunity to return to the single-girl habits I used to hold so near and dear. Which is not to say that I forget my man and hit the town in something one of those awful Kardashian sisters would wear. What I'm actually doing is eating tater tots and baked beans for dinner, relocating all of the books I'm currently reading onto the couch and waking up early to do workout dvds that I wouldn't be caught dead practicing in the presence of someone who I'd like to continue to find me attractive. None of this is particularly noteworthy, but it's what I choose to do when I'm on my own. And every now and then it's just nice not to have to consider anyone else's desires. (I hope this doesn't mean I'll be a bad mother. Surely this is exactly what grannies and summer camp are for, right?)

The other perk of this periodic solitude is the return of the kind of excitement a relationship holds before you merge all of your belongings, wash each others' underpants, and ask questions like, "Do i smell?," while wafting air from your underarms. As i write this, I'm awaiting his call to tell me how his day was in [undisclosed location]. And I'm genuinely excited to hear his voice (unless he phones during Gossip Girl. In which case, he'll have to wait). It's so easy to get comfortable with someone. To forget how much anxiety they provoked in the early days. To assume they'll always be there. His travel renews the intrigue we each possessed when we had no idea what the other was doing every moment of the day. In all likelihood, he probably assumes that I'm just reading and making questionable dinner choices. And he'd be right. But the point is that I COULD be doing anything. I am, once again, a woman of mystery. 

This is my first foray into cohabitation. And I have to say, M is the best (and cleanest) roommate I've ever had. But i've always been a pretty independent lady, one who likes to have her reading material strewn about the living quarters. He can have his fancy, foreign car tours. I'll happily indulge in some of my less charming habits for a week or so. Or, perhaps this is another one of those "things i tell myself" (because in truth, I miss him terribly).