Perfecting aloneliness

Any time I find out that people read my blog, I’m genuinely surprised. I think I’m interesting, but who doesn’t think that about themselves? But I’m introverted enough in real life to be confused when people seek me out, so that anyone would intentionally read my incredibly inconsistent personal writing is shocking. Especially as I live a life of language barriers and cultural misunderstandings, I’m less and less inclined to believe that I offer much to others outside of specific situations. I’m not being hard on myself; I’m being introverted.

I’ve always been an introvert, but it’s easy for us to be misunderstood—including by our own selves. I was treated like an extrovert for enough of my younger life that I bought into the idea that I was good at being “on.” I definitely thought I was up to the challenge of being involved in office politics, or social clubs, or personal media. I ended up being largely incorrect. That I now spend nearly every day alone is immensely helpful. It doesn’t just facilitate quality writing, although it does help. I’m also a much better friend and partner when I do spend time with others. I get more time to recharge than most of my fellow hermits.

You’d think a library would be an ideal environment for an introvert such as myself, but let me be the one to tell you: libraries in other countries—even gorgeous, rich countries that build exquisite, expensive buildings—can be bewildering. Recently, I was at Den Sorte Diamant picking up research material for an encyclopedia entry I’m writing. It took several trips up and down the flat ramp escalators to find: my book on reserve, the circulation desk, the restroom. I never found the lockers, where I was told I must store my coat if I wished to enter the reading room. I decided I’d rather just leave.

I handed over my all-purpose CPR card, which is the Danish government’s way of keeping track of me or minimizing bureaucracy, depending on which explanation you prefer. After scanning my card, the librarian looked up in surprise. “Oh. You are a new loaner.” I contemplated my response. “No, I have always enjoyed solitude.” Instead I just smiled and felt crazy. My sense of humor tends to get lost in translation.

MX the catness had ass surgery last week. He has stitches, a big shaved patch, and a plastic neck cone. He sits patiently every time we put it on him and has decided that lying squarely in the middle of my chest with his cone/face right up against mine is the best way to sleep at night. Far be it from me to argue. He also comes running for his medication—twice daily antibiotic pills and mid-morning liquid pain reliever. Must taste a hell of a lot better than the fake cherry crap I get from the pharmacy. When the coneheadedness becomes too much, he sits under the edge of the bed. He is a new loner too, albeit temporarily.