I used to be better at being alone

At first, the title of this post was to be its thesis. Then, after thinking some more, I decided it was a claim I could not support. I did this thinking while walking around the apartment, picking up beer bottles and microwave dinner trays when I was in the living room and setting them back down when in the kitchen. I eventually came up with this revised claim: I used to be better at not realizing I was bad at being alone.

The first version of the thesis came to me while I sat on the couch. The TV was on, as usual. The Olympics, of course. Trampoline! It’s kind of cool. I wish I could do that many flips in midair. Hell, I’d be happy with one midair flip.

But even though Olympic trampolining is pretty cool, I was sad. (Awwwwww.) And I wondered why I was feeling that low mood pit again. It’s Saturday! I don’t have to work! On Thursday and Friday, I was looking forward to Saturday. Like the everybody of yore, I work for the weekend. I was looking forward to the weekend because, unlike last Saturday, I was taking today off. No obligations. And, I thought, a young man in possession of a free Saturday in a great American city should be de-lighted. So why the frowny face?

Well, I thought, it’s probably because you’re alone. The apartment is empty. The fogginess in your neighborhood probably doesn’t help. You don’t have any plans.

I’m sad because I’m alone? How did this happen? I used to be good at being alone. I used to take pride (silly, silly pride, so stupid but we’ve all had dumb thoughts in our youth, no?) in my ability to exist solo. I was proud that I wasn’t scared to go to a movie by myself. I was proud to be brave enough to not give a damn if someone thought me pathetic for being alone in a restaurant during a customary social dining time.

So what’s the deal? Why should I be sad to be alone today, given my abundant experience with the state? This is when I came up with the second version of my thesis: I used to be better at distracting myself while alone. I’m not sure I was ever good at being alone; rather, I think I was just worse at recognizing when I was failing at being alone.

If I go downtown, and go to a movie I don’t really want to see, would that be an instance of successful aloneness? In that I’d feel better, yes. But in that I’d just be passing the time, and not really accomplishing anything I cared about, no. I’d feel better, but only because I’d distracted myself. It’d just be wasted time.

My top priority these days, after my thesis project, is to be better at being together, and to be together more often. But I’d still like to be better at being alone. This might entail, as discussed in my last two posts, learning to turn alone into together. Or this might entail finding more hobbies. If I had more things I passionately wanted to do by myself, I’d feel less like I was failing at being alone. I always feel embarrassed that I have so few hobbies—that my answers to “What do you do with your free time?” are always so weak.

Why don’t I just call someone? I dunno. I do know people here. When I looked out the window a few minutes ago, I saw an acquaintance dropping a letter in the big blue mailbox across the street. I have enough self confidence these days to say that this acquaintance likes me. I have said things in his presence that have resulted in his laughing. Why don’t I attempt to contact him, setting aside the fact that it’s already Saturday afternoon? Or anyone? Well, folks, that’s a long story, and my patience for this is starting to run out, as usually happens when I pass the 600 word mark. I think the story can be summarized thusly: While I have greater confidence in the desirability of my company than I used to, this confidence is still not great enough.

I’m outta here. Don’t worry about me, I’ll find something to do. Perhaps I’ll go “explore the city.”