So I’m all alone in a tiny matchbox apartment. In my tiny matchbox apartment.
For the first time I’m living in a place where my parents don’t. I now live with my significant other in this – in my tiny matchbox apartment. My significant other has temporarily gone away for business. He is now significant in another province. I’d like him to be significant here. But so it goes, I must be significant alone.
Now, while he is significant there, I sit in a monstrous pile of unfolded laundry on my now uncharacteristically large bed doing my best to be significant here.
I tried to keep busy doing laundry, but gave up halfway. Sheets aren’t easy to fold when you’re alone. This reinforced the theory that the universe designed itself to be pair-friendly and has doomed the single-folk to feel awkward in movie theatres, paddleboats and while assembling Ikea furniture.
So I called a friend.
“So if you were a garden tool what would you be?”
Discussing the philosophical differences between being a dirty hoe or being a sprinkler and being able to embody the like named dance move didn’t so much fill the gap of lack of significance. I soon gave up on talking my way through insignificance when the conversation shifted to the proportional differences between woolly mammoths, small planes and pyramids.
So I sat in my brand spanking new living room that still doesn’t quite feel like mine, even though my framed picture of Mary Jane’s and chihuahuas is up behind the couch, my garden gnome is lovingly guarding the TV, and my Grammy is still delightfully smiling in her frame on the shelf next to my unimaginably unmanly romantic comedy DVDs.
So while I poked at my shiny new sunburn (my yearly way of celebrating the new season), and let my mind wander about the proportions of large extinct mammals and wonders of the world, my eyes meandered onto our tiny balcony where a small party of pigeons were hanging out on my shiny new bistro set. I have never seen so many birds in one place – I truly believe my 2 feet squared balcony was exceeding its maximum perching capacity.
At that moment, I was overcome with some kind of strong sense of possession – I felt violated… by pigeons. So I did what any self respecting independent significant home owner would do: I went out there with a broom and shook it high.
I believe if they’re lucky enough, one day these pigeons might find a nice smelling house that has garden gnomes, eight balls and chihuahuas to nest in. But this one’s mine.
And that is how I learned to be significant alone: by standing up to pigeons.
Posts
