This party of one needs no pity
If you’ve ever worn headphones with the sound on mute, you might get it. If you prefer a game of Solitaire over Spades, the concept may appeal to you. But, if you’ve ever sat down in a crowded restaurant, placed an order and enjoyed every bite of your meal while staring at an empty chair, you’re already on board.
Sometimes a woman just wants to be left alone.
It’s difficult for some people, a lot of people, to accept that solitude can actually be a preference, not a plight. That the old man sitting on the park bench by himself isn’t always a miserable widower who goes there to remember better days.
I look at that man now and imagine he has a lovely wife at home. One who hopes he takes his sweet time at the park so she can watch “The Real Housewives” in peace and freakin’ quiet.
When my husband got his new job in Boston and we decided I wouldn’t join him until the end of summer, everyone around us assumed lonesomeness loomed. We started collecting looks of pity, the kind that come with the head slightly tipped to one side: You poor things.
No one was dying, no one was getting deployed, no one was filing papers. But their concerns were contagious.
Every TV show we sat down to watch became the show I would soon watch alone, with no one to appreciate my brilliant commentary. Every trip to a movie concession stand spurred thoughts of me juggling soda, a bucket of popcorn, and Sour Patch Kids through theater aisles. All while riding, not a unicycle, but a tandem bicycle. Alone.
Things would be lonelier, thus harder.
The silver lining finally revealed itself when we went out to eat before he left and couldn’t find a good parking spot. A good parking spot, to me, is like a small lottery win. It dawned on me that the 10-minute takeout spot, prime parking real estate, would soon be mine.
Know what else would soon be mine? Peace and freakin’ quiet.
Normally, our house at this time of year would sound like a Buffalo Wild Wings, courtesy of the NBA Finals. As I write this column, the only sounds I hear are keyboard taps, air conditioner blows and bird chirps. Also known as the sounds of not having cable TV. I got rid of it, an act the husband would file under “things to expedite divorce.”
Mama isn’t just accepting her solitude, she’s embracing it. Mama’s also referring to herself as Mama. Why? Because the husband hates it when Mama does that.
Once you become coupled up, you sometimes lose parts of yourself that were purely and wholly yourself. I’m getting to know myself again and myself is pretty dope. Not that I’m closing the curtains to photo booths all alone or giving self-inflicted noogies or anything. But you have to like yourself to enjoy time with yourself. And, that leads to self-confidence, a prerequisite for public solitude.
This isn’t to say the other half has gone unmissed. His wife just posted the Vegas-adapted lyrics to Guns N’ Roses’ “Patience” on his Facebook wall, and at least one original love poem has arrived in his inbox since our separation started. This is merely about making the most of our situation.
Long dog walks, frequent moviegoing and trips to the park remain a part of my life. I still haven’t walked into a crowded restaurant and held up one finger for the hostess, but I’m certainly appreciating both the concept and the practice of a “party of one.”
Contact Xazmin Garza at
xgarza@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0477.
Follow her on Twitter @startswithanx.
