My roommate, who also happens to be my sister, has been in Ireland for a week now, and I have really let the apartment go. It’s getting bad. A pile of dishes much larger than the sink has taken over the entire counter. Doesn’t smell great. Haven’t put any of them in the dishwasher. Haven’t really been feeling it.
Now that I don’t have a roommate, the little things that we all agree are super important for being in the world with each other are things I’m just not really feeling anymore. And I’m guessing I won’t be feeling them until about 10 minutes before my sister’s Uber pulls up to the building on Sunday. Monday? No, I think she said Saturday. Who cares, I’ll get it done. I think for now though I’ll just crack open another beer and pretend to write (scroll through Twitter and Hinge and Instagram) for 45 minutes.
Empty Bud Light cans are everywhere, another easy fix that would take about 90 seconds but probably isn’t gonna happen because it’s just me in here. Two nights before my sister left, I was drinking a beer in the shower, which I don’t normally do, but it really is a great feeling when you get home from work and for whatever reason you remember shower beers. You haven’t had one in months, but some combination of the weather and the train ride home and the way you walk into the apartment and drop your backpack on the floor reminds you that they exist.
Anyway, I think maybe the real reason I opted for a shower beer that night—48 hours before my sister’s departure—was because deep down I knew she was leaving. Sure it felt like just another Wednesday night, but my subconscious had already given my body the heads up that this was going to be a week of complete relaxation, so let’s just go ahead and get this shit started.
And look, I’m glad that’s how I kicked it off. It’s been a fantastic week. So many advantages to finally being completely fucking alone in this tiny apartment. All the worst things about this place are suddenly not a problem at all, like the fact that the bathroom door and the refrigerator door and my sister’s bedroom door are in a 2.5-square-foot triangle. Which is only an issue when you have two people trying to shuffle past each other all the time. “Oh, you need to pee? Hold on, lemme grab some bread outta the fridge real quick. Okay, go ahead. Sorry. Nope, all good. I’m done. Okay, let me shut this. Now you go. What? I thought the fridge people were coming tomorrow? Yeah this isn’t gonna work, we shoulda kept the old, broken one. This one comes all the way out to your doorknob. How are you even getting to the doorknob? Nevermind, go ahead. What? You’re out of toilet paper? You can have some of mine. I’ll go get it. Okay, well now you’ve gotta let me out. Close the bathroom door first. Thanks, sorry. I’ll be right back. We really should talk to the fridge people.”
These kinds of conversations have not been part of my life this week, and I appreciate that. In fact, I’m appreciating it more and more every day. But I’ve found that the more I appreciate it, the less inhabitable this apartment becomes. It’s not intentional. It’s just what happened. And it probably won’t get any better until I get a text from my sister on Monday afternoon (Sunday afternoon?) asking if I want to grab a drink down the street and catch up when she gets home in 30 minutes. I will 100 percent be down for that; I’m tired of drinking at home. I should clean this place out before I leave. Or I could meet her at the bar and make sure we’re both in a great mood before she comes back and sees what it’s become. Leaning toward the latter right now. We’ll see how I feel when I get the text.
Hahah! Feel this for sure!!!