Six months ago I fell in love. Whoop-de-doo for me. There are easily nineteen million reasons why the whole love thaaang is wonderful, but focusing on the wonderful simply isn’t my style. The negative aspect — the admittedly worthwhile negative aspect — is that falling in love has meant deciding to cohabitate, and deciding to cohabitate has meant I’ll no longer get to live alone. I’ve done so for four years now, and although I spent the better part of those years dreaming I’d fall in love enough to want to give it up, now that I’m actually going to, I realize there’s so much that I’ll miss. I mean, can I still wash my feet in the sink if I need to? Of course I can. It’s just, I don’t think it’ll be quite as much fun with my boyfriend around. And so below, a list of all the things I’ll miss most when I saunter my sweet self from bachelorette pad to love nest.
The Teabag Fling
This article, remember, is about solo living. So when I say “Teabag” I don’t mean it as a euphemism. No. I do not. I mean that part of my morning ritual is sitting on my couch and drinking a cup of tea. When my tea is appropriately steeped, it always feels like too much of an effort to actually get up off the couch to throw said teabag away, so I tend instead to fling it to the floor. Then, whenever I have to get up, when nature calls, when I decide it’s time for my mid-morning nap, etc., that’s when I’ll pick it up. So it is that my mid-afternoon ritual tends to involve scrubbing tea stains off my floor.
I fart like it’s what I was born for. I have cleared a fitting room at Zara as well as a midtown Manhattan Starbucks with what I like to call my “Butt Power.” Well, not having to worry about another person hearing/smelling me is a bit of freedom on par with slipping out of a straight jacket.
My butt power – or petant as it is so called by the French –is outdone only by the force with which I burp. I’ve heard it referred to as “emasculating” more times than… well, gosh, I don’t know. I mean, how many drops of water are in the ocean? I don’t care to restrain myself, and living alone, I don’t have to.
Let me Blow My Nose into My Underpants
Sometimes, when I run out of Kleenex and paper towel, and I’m left with the thinnest and weakest of toilet paper sheets, I’ll blow my nose into a pair of underpants. This happens mostly when my allergies flare up. Give me credit for that, at least.
Talking to my imaginary dog
Her name’s Eleanor, she’s an English bulldog, she’s very proud. Sometimes I encourage her to join me on the sofa, sometimes I offer her scraps of my unfinished omelet. She likes it when I sing to her — Counting Crows are a favorite — so sometimes I do that too. And none of this means I’m crazy by the way. IT MEANS THAT I’M INVENTIVE!
Related: 5 Bad Reasons To Move In Together
Talking to Kelly Ripa
I watch her live show religiously and tend to offer feedback and/or encouragement while doing so. I’ll be all, like, “Werk, girl, werk! That hair looks fab,” or perhaps, “Don’t talk about your exercise regime. You bleed self-loathing when you do.”
Cuddle the Computer Charger
It’s warm, okay? So sometimes I plug it into the ol’ laptop and spoon it. It’s warm. And — MASSIVE added bonus –- it doesn’t snore.