Behold, my barstool

"Your apartment looks sad."

Christopher and I were sitting on my couch eating cake.

"Don't say that, I love my apartment."

"No, you have a really nice apartment. It's just..." He gets up and walks to my kitchen and picks up my barstool, "you only have seating for one." He leans over the counter and picks up my placemat, "You only have a placemat for one." He returns to the couch and shakes the TV tray we were sharing because I only have one, "You're only living for one."

"So what, you live by yourself!"

"Yes, but at least I have 2 barstools! Having one is sad!"

"97% of the time I'm in this apartment, I am by myself. Why should I spend money on things I'm not going to use?"

"You have to be open to the possibilities of more than one person," he says.

"My apartment isn't big enough for 2 people to cohabitate."

Christopher gives me a look; he hates it when I don't use "everyday" language. He says it's pretentious.

"Well your lifestyle says you aren't open for that possibility."

I wish I could say that having this conversation made me call up my father to get me a duplicate barstool, but it didn't. If anything, it made me proud that I only have one barstool and one place setting. I'm not living under the presumption that there will be someone else. It's just me and I'm more than fine with that.

My cynicism has reached new levels this year, levels that scare the hell out of me at times. Sometimes I'll hear what's coming out of my mouth and I'll think 'Who is this person? And what the hell happened to her that makes her think this way?'

There are downsides for the life I've chosen: I hate having to drag my barstool around my apartment so I can reach things on the top shelf and I can't buy things that I can't carry by myself. I bought a new TV stand, a nice one from IKEA. My father was with me to help me drag the box inside my apartment, but after I put it together, it sat in the middle of my living room for a week because I couldn't move it or my TV. I finally made some phone calls to get someone to come over and help me with it and I had to deal with, "What, you don't have anyone that can move it for you?"

I hate that.

Not to mention I would like it moved six inches to the left, but there's no way in hell that's ever happening because I'm not making those phone calls again.

But those are not good enough reasons for me to want more. I don't want to compromise on what to eat for dinner. I don't want to share my bed. My life is full enough as it is that I don't need some man to tell me I'm beautiful to make my it fuller.

Every once and awhile I wish I was wrong: I wish there is someone out there that could change my mind. Christopher would prove not to be that man. He would disappear before the following month without so much as an explanation and my life would continue very much the same.

But I only wish to be wrong every once and awhile. Like when I'm teetering on top of my barstool trying to put my pasta pot back on the top shelf.