Never having lived by myself is one of my mild regrets.
Don't get me wrong -- I love living with Paul, I couldn't have chosen better college roommates, and I don't especially think I would even like a long-term solo living arrangement anyway. It would be nice to have definitive proof, however, that I could live on my own without starving to death or boring myself to death. When I was a child and complained that I was bored, Mom would tell me to make my own fun. I'm still learning how.
While I'm always sad on the rare occasions that Paul goes out of town without me, I know it's good for me. I got a longer taste of the single life than usual last week. Paul had to be in Columbus for work from Tuesday through Thursday and then used a vacation day to extend his trip and visit with family and friends. He came home last night.
Of course, living alone for six days isn't exactly the same as truly living on your own. I didn't have to set up any ant traps or deal with any broken appliances. I barely had to cook since Paul left the refrigerator stocked with enough leftovers for at least seven meals. (Reason #1,001 I love my husband: He enables my laziness.)
But I did, as my mom would say, have to make my own fun. Mostly that was the same fun I have when Paul is around -- reading. But when he's gone I always make a special effort to do things that I know he hates. I few weeks ago, when he was also in Columbus, that meant watching three musicals in about as many days. This past week, that meant shoe shopping.
I'm glad Paul's back. The apartment won't be so silent anymore. And I'm almost out of leftovers.