On my two-year stint living in a studio apartment:
- My apartment clocks in at 306 square feet, which, according to Wikipedia, is on the smaller end of average for a studio in the U.S. But I've discovered that in the eyes of the media, my apartment is really freakin' tiny. USA Today suggests that my apartment would better qualify as an office. The New York Observer prefers to call my place a "mirco-apartment." And Tim Newcomb at Time dares you to even imagine living in a space so tiny. Evidently, living in my apartment is some sort of bragworthy, Herculean feat of asceticism. This is news to me, as I've been very comfortable here.
- In fact, the media seem to just marvel at my life choices in general. When I moved into this apartment, I wrote a blog post discussing all the horrible stereotypes commonly applied to lone-dwellers, among them being that you're probably weird, depressed, unloveable, and/or likely to die an unnaturally early death resultant of being smothered by your piles of cats. I googled the phrase "living alone" just now, and it appears that the rep hasn't improved over the past two years, since the top four search results all prominently feature the word lonely. I love you, too, Internet.
- For the record, just as I'd anticipated, I did not find living alone lonely or depressing. Nor did I find it particularly exhilarating. If asked, "What's it like living alone?" I'm not sure how I would respond. It feels like living in an apartment.
- That said, the studio life does, necessarily and automatically, force you to confront the question, How would you really act or spend your time if no one were around to see/judge you?, because, well, no one is around to see or judge you. Will every day suddenly become Naked Day? Will you start singing the Fraggle Rock theme song in the shower? Will you litter your floors and counter tops with your unmentionables? Will you start talking to your microwave? Will you stop eating anything except cereal, Nutella, and beer? The people who answer "yes" to these questions are, collectively, probably the reason The New York Times calls living alone "a breeding ground for eccentricities" and "represent[ing] the self let loose."
- Incidentally, my answer to the questions above was, generally, "no." Maybe it's because I've been broken, like a saddled stallion, by Society/The Man to such a degree that social propriety and conformity are now my default modes of sheeple-living. Maybe I just enjoy wearing clothes and maintaining monk-like stretches of silence. Either way, I can't say that "living alone" prompted me to let my freak flag fly any more than usual.
- Well, okay, I suppose I did watch, like, a lot of Gilmore Girls while living alone, but then again, my sister and I also watched, like, a lot of Gilmore Girls when we were living together, so I don't think that counts as a strictly studio-apartment eccentricity.
- Most people move into new apartments with little to no idea what the neighbors will be like. It's one of those mini-lotteries that you pretty much have to play when you sign a new lease. In this apartment, I was treated to: a neighbor who variously blasts heavy metal, Lady Gaga, scremo, and Journey; an extremely friendly middle-aged neighbor who sits on the stoop drinking Heineken out of a paper bag at midday; a 20-something neighbor-couple who get into intense, hilarious arguments over things like microwaving nachos; a neighbor who took up playing the harmonica at 3 a.m.; and a curmudgeonly old-man neighbor who I've only seen once because he never leaves his unit. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to what my next apartment has in store.
- The door to my apartment automatically locks when it shuts; there is no way to break in; and I have no spare key. I have never locked myself out of my apartment. This is my proudest solo-living-related accomplishment to date.
- ...And I will now proceed to cross my fingers, knock on wood, throw salt over my shoulder, and find some disembodied rabbit feet to carry around, because I still have to live here for another two weeks.
