I have officially been living alone in my own apartment (!!!) for four days now, which makes me completely qualified to talk about living alone. Right?
Varenka has officially gotten into a top school for a grad program, where she will be studying something which I am not capable of explaining, but it sounds very smart. She is now off doing that in a location. Congratulations to Varenka and her unwavering intellectual abilities.
Hence, I am now living alone for the foreseeable future. I decided to renew the lease on our two bedroom apartment all by myself for many various reasons, including the fact that apartment hunting is hard and apparently finding a one-bedroom apartment in Place-Where-I-Live that is safe, habitable, and not a zillion dollars is just not a reality. Seriously. I looked at 16 different apartments. And I’m sorry, perfect-and-beautiful-apartment-with-high-ceilings-and-hardwood-floors-for-1000-a-month, but living across the street from the highest density crime area in the city is NOT AN OPTION for a small female living on her own. No matter how unbelievably flawless and adorable the green walled kitchen is. Or the claw foot antique tub. Or the AMAZING CHICKENS in the spacious verdant wonderland of a backyard. CHICKENS. FRESH EGGS FOR DAYS.
I could have loved you, perfect-and-beautiful-apartment-with-high-ceilings-and-hardwood-floors-for-1000-all-inclusive-a-month. You unbelievable tease.
Alas, it was not to be, so I remain living in heinous-wallpaper-in-every-room-makes-me-feel-like-a-hipster-apartment. Also known as the here-take-65%-of-my-paycheck-I-don’t-need-to-eat-this-month apartment.
Here. I still live here.
At any rate, living alone for four (!!!) days has brought to light certain irrational fears I apparently have about living on my own. Fears such as:
– Becoming a hoarder and having a pile of my stuff fall on me and I die.
– Choking on food, dying, and having cats eat my face à la Sex in the City. I don’t even live with a cat. But my neighbours have one.
– Leaving the oven on all day and then dying from brushing my hair and producing static which sparks and then KABOOM.
– The possibility of there being a flood at night that’s so intense my bed floats away with me in it. Or I drown.
– Getting tangled in the sheets and dying.
– Falling in the shower and dying.
– Not being able to open a jar and dying. Somehow. Maybe from starvation.
Basically I’m terrified of dying alone and no one finding me for days. That’s totally a thing.
Other people have these fears though, right?
Grief is a weird thing. First of all, it’s a weird word. Grief. Grief grief grief. It sounds like a grunt noise, like something that would accidentally come out of your mouth if you hit the ground at a funny angle or something.
Secondly, it hits you at really bizarre times.
Yesterday was the 3rd anniversary of the day my best friend Miks died. Which is horrifically morbid, but also something you don’t tend to forget. I’ll spare you all the gory details, except to say that she died of leukemia, and that her illness and her death were a defining point in my life that ultimately changed me forever. Probably for the better or whatever. Yet I digress.
My friend Kimchi and I had dinner (pork chops and quinoa) and drank Miks’ favorite booze (lambic) and it was all well and good and not even particularly sad. In fact, apart from a little sad tingle at seeing all the pictures of Miks floating around on Facebook, I actually managed to have a pretty good day yesterday.
That’s not to say that I’m not still grieving though. I still dream about her all the time. Constantly. Randomly, too. Like I’ll be at a dance in alternate China trying to stop a walrus from bathing in the punch (true story) and she’ll be there passing out cookies or dancing with a giraffe or singing in the background. Then I’ll wake up and experience that awful jolt of remembering she’s dead.
For the first year or so, I kept trying to call her. That was the worst, I think. I know I texted her at least twice about a month after she died. Or I’d find a song or a Youtube video I’d want to share with her and just about post it to her Facebook.
Birthdays are the worst. For obvious reasons.
Like I said, grief is weird and random, and it hits you hard when you you least expect it. Kind of like if a complete stranger hits you in the stomach when you’re walking down the street. It’s not really something you can control. You can’t decide when you get mad or offended or sick or sad, you can only manage how you deal with those feelings.
For right now, I guess pork chops and booze is a good way to go.