How to Live Your Life Alone

My temperature was taken by a woman just over 30 years old. My skin is radiant and smooth. She is wearing a white shirt underneath a teal cardigan. Her glossy nails are highlighted with the same teal as the accents in her gold necklace. Staring at my hands, I notice a coffee stain on one arm of my sweatshirt. The cotton cuff is also ripped.

After she examines my ears, I explain to her that I'm leaving for two months and that although it may be a mild cold, I wanted it checked before I went. I tell her, sweetly curious and excited about my plans, that I am going to a small Vermont village. She asks me if I'm going on the trip for work. She asks me whether I know anyone there or if it's just for friends and family. I reply no again. My voice has become shaky. I can see the confusion in her eyes, as well as a flash of concern. Alone? She asks. I nod. She smiles.

It's not the strangest thing in the universe to trade your small apartment and subway traumas for a farm with mountain views for less than half the rental price. However, for a 36-year-old woman, the idea of being completely alone in New York for months seems strange. People feel uncomfortable about my isolation at an age people expect me will settle down. They expect me to tell them I don't want kids or believe in marriage so they don't have to worry. I wish I could show my disinterest in these common paths. I'd love for love, but I was always assuming I'd have kids. It's just not possible. The question is not whether I want those items. Sure, that sounds good. What cost? That's the big question.

A woman's mid-thirties can be seen as the end of her fertility. However, these years also seem to bring about a new level of self-discovery. My childless friends and I are entering the pressure cooker of this age. Many of us are now beginning to be more open about our lives. It's easy to assume that life will flow in one direction. It has been a difficult but rewarding process. After years of trying to "have it all", but failing miserably, I was able to question my thoughts and finally allowed myself to begin to take writing seriously. So while I may be straying from what I was used to, I have found love.

It gets more complicated when your renewed self-discovery comes right at the time you believe you should be creating and caring entirely for a new human -- when it might be your last chance to get what everyone else wants. Sitting in my apartment, which is something I have accepted recently, is my absolute favorite thing to do. However, I am plagued by the fear that my future self will be angry at me for not dating sooner. My ears ring daily with the parental refrain that children are more powerful than marriage, and even the absurd saying that you're not complete without your "other" half. Yet, after years of seeking love, I never felt more complete than when I am now, by myself.

I'm often told that I like being on my own and that people laugh at me. It's clear that I prefer to be in a loving relationship where I can laugh and be loved by someone. It's not the decision that I'm trying to weigh when I consider interrupting my writing for a Tinder date. I need to meet the love and life partner of my dreams tomorrow. I'm considering whether I should interrupt the activities I enjoy doing by myself for more desirable alternatives.

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Even now, there are far too many things I would rather do with my time. This question of having kids is still a constant in my head. Now, I wonder if my desire for children is as constant as the thought of another snack. In all honesty, I know that I don't want to have children. My hunch says that any desire for children is superficially motivated by concern about how different I'll feel. In the same way, I feel out of place without a spouse. The same way that I feel out of place when my hair looks natural and untied. It's the same reason I feel out of place for not wanting the sun to shine on my hair. The only terrain I want to explore in my mind, and that's why I'd rather stay at home.

I told my friends and family that I was escaping Vermont to write. I call it a "writer's retreat." I have a lot of writing in Brooklyn. I'm not sure what it means to be totally alone for two whole months. I want to be able to do what is right for me and not feel ashamed. I want to be free from the pressures of being in partnership so that I can grow and discover myself without having to consider what someone else should think. I want my day to be spent blissfully, foolishly, in writing and I don't have to worry about whether or not I should have put myself out there. I want the feeling of being happy in my mirror, not because someone else made me look good but because I didn't do anything and I can enjoy it. So I can let go of the voices telling me that it is not enough, I want to experience the continuous joy that comes with being alone. I want clarity about what I'm looking for, even though no one can help me.