I love the dark. I love how I always have to bring a hoodie because I know it will be freezing inside. I love the seats that sometimes creak when I cross my legs. I love when no one sits in front of me so I can put my feet up on the back of the seat. I love when someone does sit in front of me and I sigh loudly like a spoiled four year old. I love not having to wrestle anyone for armrest privileges.
I love going alone because I love to be alone. I do. Knowing how to be alone gives me a confidence that I don’t think I would have if I felt the need to do everything with someone else.
I love going to the movies by myself because no one else cares, really. It’s a movie theater, not couples night at the Olive Garden.
Don’t pity the ones who enjoy going to the movies alone. Don’t pity the ones who want to take themselves out for a steak dinner. Don’t pity the ones who don’t need to be with another person to feel good about themselves.
But when I get down from my high horse and get real, do I actually love going to the movies by myself? Do I really love laughing at that one really great joke in a room full of strangers? Do I really love the lack of a shared experience with someone I know, even if it’s just seeing some lame-ass Nicholas Sparks flick? Do I really love walking out of the cinema alone, getting into my car, and going on with my day like la di da that was fun?
Knowing how to be alone can be scary. Knowing how to be alone can become a habit; a really fucking hard habit to break, too.
Sometimes I worry that I like being alone too much. Sometimes I worry that being alone will get stale and I’ll become that proverbial old married couple. Except I’m married to myself. Ugh.
I worry that I’ll get sick of me. Me. Me. Me. All the time. And one day when I’m too old to drive myself, who’s going to drive me to the movies???
But then I’m just like, quit your worrying. You’re twenty-three years old. And that’s what cabs are for, dummy.