Sometimes it scares me how downright comfortable I am being alone. I *really* like to be alone. I like to travel alone (next adventure in t-minus 1.5 weeks!). I like to watches movies alone. I like to shop alone. I like to go to museums alone, etc. It’s not that I don’t like to do things with people, it’s just that… I dunno, flying solo carries less requirement for things to be yay super fun!
Sometimes I worry (inevitable due to all that time with my thoughts) that I’m settling so much into solitude that I’m morphing into someone unsharable. And I really don’t want to end up a crazy spinster who hoards cats and wears housecoats with pearlized snaps all day.
One family story tells of my paternal grandmother asking my then 10-year-old dad what he wanted to be when he grew up.
He decidedly replied, “A herman.”
After probing a bit more she figured out he meant “hermit.” Phew! Looks like my anti-people preference was genetically predetermined! And my dad turned out great! I don’t think he owns anything with pearlized snaps!
Guess all my pops and I really need is regular, quality herman time. Proof that fruit, either eaten alone or with friends, doesn’t fall far from the tree.