Here’s the thing about living on your own: you’re alone.
This means that when you get a jar of salsa with cement for a lid, salsa chicken becomes a no-go. This means that when you make something that was good but not great, there’s no one to help eat up the leftovers. This means that when three avocados all ripen within an hour of each other, you’re going to be eating a lot of guacamole. This means that when you buy fresh mozzarella, chances are that it’ll go suspiciously milky before you get around to making the [stacked] salad you actually felt like having.
This means that there’s no one around to tell you that Greek yogurt is not an acceptable dinner — not five nights a week, anyway. This means that there’s no one to dry the dishes while you wash. And, to veer slightly off-topic: being alone means that when your air conditioning starts pouring all of its energy into making a lake out of the floor, there’s no one around to consult [and help mop].
Being alone means that if you’re not careful, you might very well go an entire weekend only half smiling hello to the check-out clerk at Trader Joe’s. That would be 48 hours without a single spoken word. This is what we call an all-time low.
It’s enough to make a girl want to start handing out slices of icebox cake to anyone who looks normal/nice! Alternating layers of lemon whipped cream and crumbly Biscoff cookies should not be a hard sell.
Somebody must know how the leg curl works at the gym; somebody must want to go for a walk along the river; somebody must want to eat cherry-rhubarb crumble straight out of the pan.
Somebody must think that meals eaten in front of a computer screen are SAD.
Somebody must think that kale and shrimp salad sounds good…
But only if there are more cookies and cream on the horizon.
And somebody, somewhere, must think that walking from bakery to bakery is the best form of exercise of all.
Whoever you are, wherever you are — wanna be friends?