Once in a blue moon, or not even as often as that, I go out. I think it’s just for a change of scene, maybe to try some new food (by which I mean the same thing I normally eat, in a different restaurant).
The trouble is, I do like being alone. There’s always so much to do, to explore, to read, to unpack.
I really should socialise more.
But then I do and wonder why.
I’m not sure why I feel a little ashamed of being an introvert. I think there was a whole book written about this, about how we are all amazing and about how everyone should know. And that our whole society is built on encouraging people to be outgoing.
Even if that is true, I don’t think I need to share that with anyone. I like the quiet.
I like the quiet as I read on the veranda, hearing the strange bird and cricket sounds. I like the quiet as I crunch on my unsalted peanuts. I like the rustle as I peel them.
But then I worry again: I’m enjoying this alone time way too much. I’ll die an old maid, found once I’ve been half-eaten by my non-existent cats.
While I may not care what anyone else thinks of me, I care what I think of me. I clearly don’t fit the ideal I have of me in my mind. It feels like rejecting a man of the basis that he is not “tall, dark and handsome.”
Where did this ideal come from? Me? My family of origin? Society?
So, much like doing away with a size zero model on the runway, I slowly doing away with my ideals.
In his book Radical Honesty, Blad Blanton talks about how people who really stick to their ideals have been shown to be the unhappiest.
I know I want be happy.
So I’m going to stop worrying about what I think of myself and get comfortable alone in front of the fireplace tonight. The kids are going to back from their father’s soon enough and I will proudly tell them that I have done “nothing” while they’ve been gone.
