I'm sitting here, as I do every Friday morning during the off season, enjoying my coffee, my internet, my cuddly cats, and my solitude. I could probably live in my own little world for days, weeks, maybe even months, without face-to-face contact with anyone. Don't get my wrong, I love my friends and family, I love seeing and talking to people, and I really love a good shopping trip. Which, somehow, always involves people. Unless it's Amazon, but that's a whole different story.
Anyway, I love all that, but I love my solitude, as well. Always have, and likely always will. I'm not at all afraid of my own company. I can entertain myself endlessly. I can indulge my delusions of grandeur to my heart's content. You know, being a world-class writer, being so crafty that Martha Stewart comes to me for advice, building a shoe collection that would make Imelda Marcos jealous.
You see, I'm easily overwhelmed by the "noise" of life. It clutters up my head. It's distracting. It's confusing. It makes me uncomfortable in my own skin. Sometimes, it makes me downright crazy. It's the reason I'm on meds. Without the meds, I can't easily tolerate "life", and it doesn't much tolerate me. So we're all better off.
My husband is pretty sure there's something wrong with me. A person shouldn't enjoy being alone so much.
Maybe I was a cat in my former life?
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