Call me a loner, but at least I get things done. I’m used to doing things on my own. Cleaning my place. Driving. Cooking. Playing video games. Having an orgasm–hey, I’m not afraid to admit it! (Though sometimes I give my batteries credit. It’s the safest sex, after all!)
Even vacationing; it’s been years since I took a vacation with someone. But I will say the last trips I took in those years since having someone accompany me were some of the funnest, most memorable trips I’ve taken. Just today, I went to the SF Giants Fanfest at AT&T Park…on my own. Which I’ve done for the past four years–at least I don’t have to worry about trying to catch up or look for someone. (Though I was a little close with having a Giants fan/friend go with me last year, but she had “other things” to do. Feh!) As it has been in those four years I’ve gone to Fanfest, it’s always crowded as hell at the park, so after, I went to the beach in Pacifica to decompress away the hustle and bustle I had to put up with. Watching the sunset and listening to the waves crash…it was wonderfully peaceful. Equally serene was when I took a little drive to El Granada, a seaside town a few miles north of Half Moon Bay. There’s a residential neighborhood that’s surrounded by tall redwood trees; I felt like I was in Lake Tahoe, except in someplace much warmer (even during early evening) and with the ocean nearby.
And it was there that I thought about writing a topic about this. Really thinking about my solitude. It’s not like I don’t have friends, but I can’t say I have a lot of friends. There’s only, literally, a handful-and-a-half that I can consider true friends–the ones that got back, that know the real me, etc. Hell, my cat is more of a friend to me than that guy I never met in my life but “friended” me on Facebook. ‘Course, I’m adult enough to not be obsessed with having so many “friends” on the FB–hence, the amount of “friends” I got there. (I saw an FB profile of some girl who posts nonsensical stuff on her wall, and she’s got 300-something friends. Is that how it works these days? Being an air-headed bimbo on Facebook = hundreds of friends?) And I can always make some more in real life, which I do through work and wherever else, but it’s not often. I can tell from the first impression of someone on if they’ll be cool enough to be my buddy, or if they’ll be an acquaintance fleeting. And it depends on when someone catches me. If I see a girl at, say, a Giants game, and she’s wearing some cool like orange-and-black checkered bell-bottoms and happens to like 90s riot grrl rock bands and seems straight-up and down-to-earth in personality, then maybe we can hang. But if I see a girl at a Giants game, wearing heavy makeup, and is looking larger than she is in her stupidly too-tight pants and thinks she’s the shit, then I’ll pass and then throw up my garlic fries. (On a side note, talking about Fanfest earlier today…I noticed that some of the girls there are getting fatter and their clothes tighter. Does this make any fucking sense?!?! I think for every whale in tights I saw, I was a step closer to slitting my wrists. So as I type now, there’s blood on my keyboard. Look, I don’t mind big girls, but when it comes to clothes, I draw the line somewhere, goddammit.) I guess my own personal tastes could be a reason why I’m quite selective in making friends.
The same could be said for that “single” label describing my marital status. That label’s been there for years. I’ll save the “what I want in my dream man” talk for later, but while I like being single, there will be days (usually when I’m moody) when I straddle the line between enjoying the single life, and wanting that special someone by my side. I was totally thinking that when I walked through those trees in El Granada earlier today. I thought of the things I would do if I have that dream man with me then…The egotist in me likes to think there’s a lot of guys missing out when it comes to me. But now that I’ve returned to a more pragmatic state of mind, who knows–maybe those guys wanna use and lose me instead. And I wound up savoring my single girl status a little more.
I will point out that there is definitely a difference between being alone and being lonely. “Alone” can be done by choice, and some find a sense of peace and tranquility in it. As for “lonely,” there’s more emotion (usually sadness and longing) to it. Even the word has a sad connotation to it. And while some people think the same about the word “alone,” somehow I don’t see it that way. I felt lonely before; I’ve been alone many times and felt fine with it.
I guess my comfort in being a loner goes back to grade school. In elementary school, when I didn’t know better, I wanted to be popular and have a lot of friends…but didn’t get all that and wasn’t accepted by most of my peers. There were times when I ate lunch on my own and hated it. That was when I felt lonely. I was an occasional target for the assholes that liked messing with me just because I ate lunch on my own. But towards the end of my high school years, I began realizing that being alone…wasn’t as bad as I originally saw it. There was a sense of peace in it, and I was never teased for it as I was during my elementary school years. (Ironically, I ended up being part of a clique at the same time I came to that realization.) Fast-forward to today, where I’ve become so used to not only doing things on my own, but being on my own. There’s been some times when I have to, say, drive with a friend in the car, and while I enjoy being with this friend, it’s also not something I’m used to. I become somewhat of a different person when I got someone else in the car–I become more mindful of what speed I’m driving and the music playing. Perhaps I’ve enjoyed my own company so much that when another joins in on my fun, it’s almost an oddity.
Of course, I don’t have to worry about that right now, for here I am, still reeling from the crowds at Fanfest, the PMS simmering within, on my own. Not with a smile or a frown on my face, but being pensive. And if you know what “pensive” means, hey, maybe we can hang. As long as you’re not some whale thinking you’re sexy in those stupid, stupid tights.