When you live by yourself, you’re frequently faced with answering your own questions. No roommate to call the cable company to tell them, “The internet is slower! I know it is, you dummies! And no, I don’t need to restart my computer!” No gal pal to tell you don’t buy the culotte romper. And definitely no one to show you the proper way to carve a chicken.
Come to think of it, I could probably Google that last one.
But for the others, I have to work out my own solutions. It also doesn’t help that in this scenario, the question and the answer are coming from someone who happens to be an introvert. Introverts spend most of our time thinking about things, and then overthinking things. And then thinking about how much we overthink things, and then we think about a plan to not overthink so much.
Some excerpts from this weekend’s introvert-studio-apartment-Q&A:
Question: When you live close enough to work that you know some of your neighbors as coworkers, what’s worse: Running into a coworker as you take out the trash in your pajamas and making small talk in your gingerbread flannel pajamas set, or having a coworker catch you running to the dumpster in your pajamas because you’re trying to avoid running into a coworker in your pajamas?
Answer: Everyone wears pajamas. Everyone has garbage. There’s no need to run. Option B: Yell, “MY NAME IS FRANCIS!” as you’re running, so they naturally assume, “Oh, there goes Francis.”
Question: What is the best Whitney Houston song to loudly sing in an opera voice in retaliation for your neighbors ringing everyone’s doorbell at 3:30 a.m. on a Sunday?
Answer: “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.” No question. What is this? Amateur hour?!
Question: If I take my potted mint plant on my walk with me because I’m worried it’s not getting enough sun, am I a little bit sad, or all the way sad?
Answer: Suburban Wisconsin is boring. They need a Boo Radley character. Take the mint.
Question: Why don’t I see anyone else smelling fruit for ripeness as much as I do at the grocery store?
Answer: Other people hate delicious fruit. Or your parent’s pranked you when they told you that’s how you check for ripe fruit because they thought it’d be funny. OR other people do it too, and you’re too busy composing a song about feta cheese in your head to notice. (As an FYI, “Feta Cheese is Better Cheese” will be my opus.)
Question: Are those the Jumanji drums I hear?!
Answer: YES! Not the construction site down the street. Now, go find companions to pull you out when the ground turns to quicksand! Probably the neighbors.
They loved your Whitney Houston rendition after all.