The pleasure of your own company

It took me a long time to be happy with just myself for company. Now although there are days when I am pleased to be with others, there are also pockets of time where I look forward to being on my own. Apropos of nothing at all, least of all my Black Dog (hereafter known as Rufus), being comfortable in your own skin means you are able to be comfortable and yourself with others.

Today Hubs had to meet a contractor on site, so disappeared early to work, yes I know it is Saturday, and he does too. This morning I’ve pottered about the house, listening to a couple of podcasts and then took myself off out to breakfast. I had to buy the paper, but I wish I hadn’t. There was no magazine and a special report on Collingwood, of all teams to pick, they pick the one with the most self-inflated, arrogant fans. I sorted through it and ejected over half the paper into the recycling bin, unopened.

After last weeks two breakfast debacle, I went to a cafe that I knew I was going to get fed a good brunch, an army marches on its stomach after all. After massacring the paper, I drank my pot of tea, ate my food and half-listened to a couple of women at the next table. Busily bitching about a work colleague, it was so vitriolic I gave them a look of disgust, which disconcerted them and they left soon afterwards. I have never understood why women particularly have to be so vile about each other. All my life I have got on better with men in the majority, while my close friends are mostly female, bar Hanno and Hammer, I find it easier to talk to men. I can just talk to them, I don’t have to worry about what I am wearing, or if my hair went OK that morning before we have a conversation, because men don’t care. Women give each other the head to toe penetrating laser look and can assess if you had a good night’s sleep, if you ironed your clothes, or got dressed in the dark and if we looked at each other hard enough, what we each ate for breakfast. Men are much easier to be around.

Today, I enjoyed eating what I wanted, not talking to anyone, savouring every mouthful. I also love being able to read in peace and quiet, it is my greatest pleasure; while I can read downstairs, my feet tucked up under Hubs on the couch, him rubbing my legs every so often, sitting down on my own with a book, anywhere, I am lost to the world. I can read a whole book in one sitting, only to move when I close the covers with regret, finding my legs numb or pins and needles in my feet. Likewise, I can sit on a beach and watch the waves break for hours on end, watch wind move through a field so it looks like water, or wind ruffling leaves on trees and I am quite happy. In fact I am more than happy, sitting or lying there watching the world go by, alone with my thoughts and myself. Being on my own was something that scared me for a long time, I hate Jerry Maguire where they decide they ‘complete each other’. As much as I love girly, weepy films, the myth that is perpetuated in Hollywood that you can’t be happy on your own, you need a significant other to make you life complete drives me to distraction. If there is one thing I bang on about, and will keep banging on about, is that you are fine on your own, you are more than enough, you are complete in your self. Hubs and I are inseparable, but that is because we have such a good time together, we choose to be together, there is a big difference. Finding out who you are, so you can stand on your own two feet and hold your head up high means spending time on your own.

Unfortunately in this digital and plugged in age, most people are permanently attached to a screen of some kind. I do worry that we’re going to forget you communicate by making eye contact, that you learn more about yourself in the wee small hours when you can’t sleep or you take yourself off for a long walk, than you ever can in front of a computer or TV.

On that note…

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