Living Alone and Loving It

The first time I moved out on my own, I had two roommates. They were both guys, but it was nothing romantic. We shared a house in the town where I was going to college. One guy owned the house, but he had to travel a lot for work. The other guy and I were going school and working, and the three of us never saw each other much. 

Two years later, I lived with the boyfriend that I had at the time. There's five years I'll never get back. He was not a nice person, and that was not a good time in my life. 

I didn't live on my own-- really, truly on my own-- until I was 25. That same boyfriend helped me pick out a cute two bedroom duplex ("we'll turn the extra room into the baby's room when you get pregnant,"), he helped me move in, and then proceeded to break up with me before I had even slept there one night. Thanks for nothing, Dude. 

But after my tears were dried, after I had unpacked all my belongings, put my pictures on the wall, and turned that second bedroom into my cat's personal play room, I realized that living alone was pretty awesome. The house was always exactly how I wanted it. I always got to have only the food I wanted in my refrigerator. If  wanted to sit in my living room in my underwear eating Cheetos, I could. I was so free. I was independent. I was alive. 

It is only after you realize that you can  take care of yourself that you're ready to take care of someone else. That was the house I was living in when, three years later, I met The Agent. And by then, I was ready to share my life with him instead of being alone.