Twenty-Something Year Old Journalist

I went apartment shopping the other day. Although I’ve never lived alone, it’s been my dream since before I even learned what dreams are. Some girls fantasize about becoming a mom, some about their wedding. I always fantasized about being alone. 

Having to live at home (much like every other post-grad during such an inviting time to be post-grad), I couldn’t wait until the day I was finally able to move out. Unfortunately and relatably, my first corporate job didn’t pay me enough to move out, but the dream of being able to kept me going.

Then I finally found myself with a new job with a real salary where I could actually afford to move out. 

Suddenly, though, living at home didn’t seem too bad. 

When I originally moved back home and stayed for longer than anticipated, I felt like a loser. A loser living with their Dad after moving back home from college in the New York City. I didn’t want to live at home but had no other choice—I qualified this as loserdom. 

Now that I actually have the financial ability to not live at home, I feel on top of the world. Getting to keep my full paycheck in my bank account is an honor, to say the least. 

But you’re telling me that now that I actually have money, I have to spend it on things other than sweet treats and popcorn at the movies? Hard pass. 

Who am I to deprive my father of living with his twenty-four-year-old, eldest daughter? I can’t imagine ever wanting to do such a heinous thing. 

Don’t get me wrong, I still daydreamed about living alone day and night, but now that it felt like I at least had a choice over my living situation, the tradeoffs of my mental health and making all my dreams come true felt worth it. (My Dad, however, will confirm there was never a ‘choice.’) 

But then suddenly the night of the Saturday Night Live finale comes. My dream date. Watching Will Ferrell with musical guest Paul McCartney and then having sex in a parent-less, roommate-less house? My dream date. 

Here’s the problem with having roommates, though: there’s always a very high chance they’re around. And here’s the problem with living with your parents: they’re always around. Because of this, my dream date was ruined. 

This isn’t about sex, though. This is about being able to do what I want, when I want. 

It was finally time to make a change—the change. A lease was signed, cars were packed, goodbyes were said, and the 16-mile drive was driven. 

I now live happily alone in my 475 sq. ft. studio apartment—being able to have all 475 sq. ft. to myself is truly everything I’ve ever wanted. 

I can do what I want, when I want, without having to explain anything to anyone. My dirty dishes are my dirty dishes, the feng shui of my apartment is my feng shui. If I want to go out and have fun or stay in and get unbelievably high, I can do that without any ifs, ands, or buts. 

Just the option of being able to walk around naked in my 475 sq. ft. is exhilarating. 

Living alone is true independence—being solely responsible for your actions and decisions. It strips away the need to perform and makes you confront and learn to accept the most intimate and ugly parts of yourself. 

Living alone feels like being at the start of where I have always wanted to be. 

So yes, gas may be $6/gallon, but being able to decide to have sex in your own, empty apartment is a priceless amenity that I am more than willing to pay for.