I read in the news recently that there are 33 million Americans living alone. They say that’s some kind of record.
I don’t live alone for three reasons: one wife and two daughters. It’s been so long since I lived alone that I can’t even calculate what year it was. Had to be the 90s.
When I think back on that time I get emotional and experience a salty discharge from my eyes because I remember how awesome it was. Some people are not the type who can enjoy such solitude; I absolutely loved it.
The subject came up over weekend when my wife came home from work and informed me that she prefers the dish soap to be stationed on the ledge of the sink, towards the rear, next to the hand soap. I like to put it up on the window ledge (a natural shelf!), out of the way, because I hand wash dishes at least once a day and frequently clean up around the faucets.
It may be more common and more sensible her way. She first mentioned that the paint on the window ledge was being affected and then she said something about “the view.” One may prefer my way. It doesn’t matter. There is no right or wrong spot to put the dish soap. At some point in the past we probably kept it under the sink.
I stood looking at her knowing I could handle this in a couple different ways. I could smile, give her a hug, and say “whatever you want, honey.” That’s what I want myself to do. I want to be that easy-going. Instead, I stood my ground and said, with a little attitude, “How ’bout I can keep it up on the ledge during the day while you’re not here and when you get home you can move it to wherever makes you happy.”
Earlier I said the “the subject came up” over the weekend, but I don’t want to give the impression that we had an actual conversation about the growing trend of forty-year-old husbands moving into nearby apartments. The subject came up entirely in my head, without my consent, and totally against common sense. I can’t control that stuff.
The next night we were watching a movie, “Take Shelter.” (It’s a good flick; I recommend it.) The main dude, possibly a paranoid schizophrenic, added on to an existing storm shelter in the back yard. It had running water, a toilet, and a comfy cot. I kept thinking “Man, what would it take to get me one of those.”
I’m not particularly scared of storms or an Apocalypse, but I can see myself living in a tricked-out storm shelter. Maybe I’d line an entire wall with bottles of dish soap. Who knows.
There’s a certain danger in thinking such things. It could lead to Google searches like “How to build a storm shelter you could live in.” Talking about them adds another level of instability. Hey, what do you think about me living in a storm shelter out back? What I’ve decided to do–write about it, publicly–could be domestic suicide. Mike, I saw a “for rent” sign down the street. I got you an application.