It's been about four weeks since my son, Daniel, moved out, which means that, for the first time in 29 years, I'm empty-nesting it. I sometimes joke about my "boomerang" kids: I throw them out into the world and they ricochet back to my house. This time, however, I'm three for three, and it looks as if all the departures are going to stick this time. My two daughters have also each found comfortable living arrangements that suit them, so here I am alone--or as alone as one can be with two cats and two dogs lounging around like they own the place.
Honestly, I expected the solo life to be a lot lonelier. I imagined appreciating the novelty of uninterrupted solitude for a week or so, then dissolving into a blubbering, forlorn mess, homesick for the mild chaos that comes with having young adult offspring living under your roof.
Instead, I'm enjoying the luxury of playing a Genesis album at 7 a.m. without worrying about waking a sleeping night owl, and no longer having my own sleep interrupted at some ungodly hour by the sharp barks of my dog Indy, who insists on announcing the return of the resident night owl (or owls).
I now have unlimited, uncompromised access to my computer, television, washer and dryer. I am the queen of my electrical devices! And I'm almost embarrassed to admit how pleasurable it is to know that the six Double Stuf Oreos I spy in the cupboard in the morning will still be there when I am craving them that night.
Other aspects of living alone are a little trickier to negotiate. Grocery shopping for one person is surprisingly difficult. It reminds me of those story problems I agonized over as a math student:
"If Deb buys two pounds of hamburger on sale, but only plans to eat hamburgers twice this week, and isn't sure if one child or two will be stopping by for dinner that week, how many pounds should Deb store in the freezer?" Answer: Deb buys the not-on-sale one-pound package of hamburger--and some ibuprofen for her headache.
At first I was relieved about not feeling lonely on my own; then I thought, maybe I should feel guilty about not feeling lonely. But I didn't feel guilty--and this made me feel worried. What kind of mother savors the silence of a son- and daughter-less house? What kind of person enjoys spending most of a weekend day curled up on the sofa reading, cell phone on silent, speaking to no one but her pets?
An introvert, that's what kind.
I recently learned that I--my friend-loving, affectionate, jokey self--fit the description of an introvert. Having done extensive reading on the subject (two articles and the Wikipedia entry), I am confident in my findings--and surprised.
According to Wikipedia, via the Merriam Webster Dictionary, an introvert is someone with "the state of or tendency toward being wholly or predominantly concerned with and interested in one's own mental life." Reading the characteristics of introverts, I could hear comedian Jeff Foxworthy's voice in my head--only instead of rednecks, it was, "You might be an introvert if..."
Writers tend to be introverts. Check. Introverts prefer comfortable clothing to highly decorative clothing. Check again. Introverts prefer smaller gatherings of close friends than large parties. Big neon check.
Introverts aren't hermits. We don't hate people, we like them just fine--in modest doses. But when our human interaction quota has been exceeded we need time to withdraw, regroup and recharge. Unlike extroverts, solitude doesn't give us the heebie-jeebies. Our heads are filled with thoughts, ideas and musings we enjoy attending to. We don't need external refills for our internal lives on a regular basis, whereas extroverts thrive on outside stimuli and energy.
I've always been uncomfortable in rooms full of people, and I've always found respite in my unbridled, Technicolor imagination. These traits, blended with an anxious, awkward demeanor and a quiveringly desperate need to be liked, made my childhood years hellacious. I didn't know how to walk up to kids and make friends. When teased or bullied I froze and fought back tears, unable to hurl a retort in my defense.
I was near middle age before I learned the social strategies needed to navigate comfortably in the world. Now I enjoy meeting new people, and I have a career which consists almost entirely of making one-on-one connections with people. And although speaking in front of groups is, for me, as pleasurable as walking outdoors naked in January, while promoting my book I was obliged to speak to a variety of groups. I was complimented on my humor and heartfelt manner of speaking. Funny--for me, "heartfelt" meant I was so terrified my heart felt ready to jump out of my chest.
Although my life has never been fuller or happier, I've never valued solitude more than I do these days. Ironically, it turns out that an empty nest can be an introvert's best friend.
Deb Pascoe of Marquette is a freelance writer and a peer recovery coach for Child and Family Services of the U.P. A former columnist for The Mining Journal, her book, "Life With a View ," a collection of her past columns, is available in area bookstores.