I am a solo-dweller.

A candle-hoarding, Netflix-binging, topless-laundry-folding, plants-are-my-pets, master-of-the-house party of uno.

On the evening of my 23rd birthday, after returning from work around 9 pm and washing several layers of other people’s sweat off my body in my chokey-sized shower stall, I sit on the couch eating baby carrots straight out of the bag.  It is fantastic.

I make needlepoint samplers for my newlywed friends, and attend nuptials -stag- in a lacy frock and ballet flats.  Like a bona fide lady.

I gravitate towards the children on the dance floor, identical twin flower girls and a hesitant ring bearer who transforms to Michael Jackson’s greatest hits.  I don’t notice how much time I’ve spent teaching a wide-eyed 4-year-old to swing dance until the end of the night, when an unknown relative (Aunt Amelia?)  thanks me for being “so generous with the kids out there!”.  Apparently, these are my people.  I am only too tickled to be accepted into their world, to forget the darkness outside and embrace the ease of innocent youth, if only for a hour or two.

I take myself to the emergency room on a Sunday morning, and sit with my dead girl toe, chewing cinnamon gum, sipping icewater, diagnosing myself, and reading a novel…you know, grown up things.

I book flights, cancel flights, make plans, order cable, write letters and poetry.

I go to the gym regularly (what), I use fancy shampoo and meditate myself to sleep.  I’m a yogi vegetarian who makes her own hummus, and my 13-year-old self is rolling her eyes at me.