My husband, in an attempt to re-capture boy share house living, spent last night at a friends house. I had the house all to myself, and anyone who is married or lives with their love knows just how wonderful that is.
I used to live alone before I moved in with my boyfriend at the time, who is now my husband. I had a tiny little basement apartment in an art deco building, and my windows were level with the side walk - I could look out and see people's ankles. I loved every single day of living alone, though frankly Adult Protective Services should have intervened in my life.
My hobbies at the time included watching TV in my undies, re-arranging my wardrobe to be more aesthetically pleasing - think arranging dresses via colours and patterns, going to bed at 7.30pm because I was too lazy to make dinner, and conducting elaborate beauty routines in my living room.
Above all I loved sleeping alone. Living by myself was an expensive exercise, and I spent money I didn't really have to sleep in a cocoon of luscious bed linen When I curled up in my big bed, with my layers of bed linen, eating two minute noodles for lunch was a worthwhile sacrifice.
And while my husband was busy reliving his sharehouse days last night, I was reliving my days of sleeping alone in a big bed. No husband to kick me or steal the covers, and the bed for me and all me.
It was just as good as I remember.
No comments:
Post a Comment