I Love Being Alone, Until I Don’t Love Being Alone
Observations on being a single, introverted woman in her late 20s, living alone in New York City
I love being alone, until I don’t love being alone — walking for coffee in the early morning hours of an autumnal Sunday, a siren or two in the distance. Without someone beside me, there is no pressure for conversation. There is only birdsong and bodega workers unloading fruit from delivery trucks. I know some of their names; I wave, and they wave back. In these hours there’s so much time — time to think about anything, really. Time to retrace dreams from the night before, time to dream of the day ahead. I am always dreaming, wide awake.
I love being alone, until I don’t love being alone — stopping in the corner store to get some dish soap and tissues.
“Sick again?” the owner asks. He’s Jamaican, with kind eyes and worn hands. He chuckles. He gives me discounted cough drops, and some hand sanitizer, for free. “I’ll have some pothos on Thursday.” He knows I love plants, and he always makes a point to tell me when the next shipment will be.
I love being alone, until I don’t love being alone — the other day I walked six miles without looking at my phone for directions. It’s one of my favorite things to do, in Brooklyn. I’ll carry my journal and maybe a book. I try to spot things on certain blocks, like a bookstore or cafe. For awhile in Park Slope I simply followed the cherry blossom trees, one by one, up through Boerum Hill, and all the way to the water. No time constraints, just wandering. If I could, I would do this every day. I would notice different moments, every time.
I love being alone, until I don’t love being alone — slowing down to chop an onion for dinner, to cook a meal that only I will enjoy, only I will see. I always play Barbara Lewis when I sauté vegetables, or French music from the 1920s.
I love being alone, until I don’t love being alone — sometimes I take the subway to a different neighborhood for a better grocery store. A woman on the train tells me she loves my outfit. I say thank you and realize she’s the first person I’ve spoken to, that day.
I love being alone, until I don’t love being alone — I’m on a date with a man in a dimly lit bar. He’s surprised when I order mezcal. I’m surprised when he says he likes art, but doesn’t know who Jean-Michel Basquiat is. I’m not surprised when he suggests I turn my poems into NFTs.
I love being alone, until I don’t love being alone — it’s spring and a different man tells me I’m soft and sweet.
I love being alone, until I don’t love being alone — it’s spring, and I’m not soft and sweet, enough.
