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Going Sherlock
Aug. 26th, 2017 07:24 pmI like to tell people I live in a shared house, even though at this point in my career I could, theoretically*, afford to live alone, because if I don't have the moderating presence of other people, I "go the full Sherlock."
This week, one housemate is in Italy and another is in Korea – the third is technically around but she effectively lives with her partner and just keeps her room here for, I dunno, storage? appearances? – so I've had the house to myself, and aside from an hour or two of café time, have been more or less on my own with the mountain of things that need doing. Many of which have been done! Gold star.
I've been led to believe that normal people, in this sort of situation, would start going stir-crazy and be desperate to get out for a bit of social fresh air, but I find the opposite tends to happen with me: after four or five days, the walls get taller and I find it harder and harder to think of compelling reasons to go through the front door ... This probably comes down to a childhood spent in isolating circumstances, where I learned quite well how to keep myself company but not how to do anything else; it continued unchallenged through most of adulthood, which is why there are large parts of Vancouver I've never visited and touchstone events both there and in LA which I've never attended. It's not so much agoraphobia as agorapathy – not afraid to go out, just can't be bothered.
Of course, without keeping them in shape this leads to a breakdown of the social skills I've gone to great lengths to acquire, and as I pull deeper and deeper into my own head I am less aware of how I come across outside it, and then ... Sherlock. A very popular character on television but not, I can assure you, well received in real life. Especially when not played by Benedict Cumberbatch.
So here I sit, tonight, a week of solitude behind me, and a week of solitude in another house next week (albeit with coworkers during the day, which helps), knowing that I ought to take advantage of a gorgeous summer Saturday night in Cambridge but not quite knowing how, and pondering some pub drawing in a context I can only describe as medicinal – and I can't decide which pub. They're either too busy or not summery enough, and there's plenty of the year for visiting winter pubs. It's so much easier not to decide and just stay home again – but I cannot let myself do that! I refuse! But what?
If nothing else, this week has taught me an important thing: I am formed by nature to be the crackpot old lady in the woods, but if I follow temptation and wind up in a cabin on the Inside Passage, all the progress I've made is forfeit. I've been thinking a lot about what direction to take if I'm sent back to Canada next year, and that had been an option, but for my sake and everyone else's I think I have to close that door.
*Assuming I were working full-time at my level of experience and seniority, and not swept up in some mania for which I've more or less taken early retirement, without the pension
This week, one housemate is in Italy and another is in Korea – the third is technically around but she effectively lives with her partner and just keeps her room here for, I dunno, storage? appearances? – so I've had the house to myself, and aside from an hour or two of café time, have been more or less on my own with the mountain of things that need doing. Many of which have been done! Gold star.
I've been led to believe that normal people, in this sort of situation, would start going stir-crazy and be desperate to get out for a bit of social fresh air, but I find the opposite tends to happen with me: after four or five days, the walls get taller and I find it harder and harder to think of compelling reasons to go through the front door ... This probably comes down to a childhood spent in isolating circumstances, where I learned quite well how to keep myself company but not how to do anything else; it continued unchallenged through most of adulthood, which is why there are large parts of Vancouver I've never visited and touchstone events both there and in LA which I've never attended. It's not so much agoraphobia as agorapathy – not afraid to go out, just can't be bothered.
Of course, without keeping them in shape this leads to a breakdown of the social skills I've gone to great lengths to acquire, and as I pull deeper and deeper into my own head I am less aware of how I come across outside it, and then ... Sherlock. A very popular character on television but not, I can assure you, well received in real life. Especially when not played by Benedict Cumberbatch.
So here I sit, tonight, a week of solitude behind me, and a week of solitude in another house next week (albeit with coworkers during the day, which helps), knowing that I ought to take advantage of a gorgeous summer Saturday night in Cambridge but not quite knowing how, and pondering some pub drawing in a context I can only describe as medicinal – and I can't decide which pub. They're either too busy or not summery enough, and there's plenty of the year for visiting winter pubs. It's so much easier not to decide and just stay home again – but I cannot let myself do that! I refuse! But what?
If nothing else, this week has taught me an important thing: I am formed by nature to be the crackpot old lady in the woods, but if I follow temptation and wind up in a cabin on the Inside Passage, all the progress I've made is forfeit. I've been thinking a lot about what direction to take if I'm sent back to Canada next year, and that had been an option, but for my sake and everyone else's I think I have to close that door.
*Assuming I were working full-time at my level of experience and seniority, and not swept up in some mania for which I've more or less taken early retirement, without the pension
