Remember that
scene from the original Rocky when emotionally
stunted Sylvester Stallone invites his equally stunted potential gal Adrienne
up the aged steps of his South Philly row home?
She’s down on the sidewalk, kind of toeing at the ground trying to
decide whether to ascend to this crazy man’s place (where he will eventually
introduce her to his turtles, Cuff and Link).
He gets angry with her reluctance, slams the wall and says something
like, Whatsa matter? Does my house STINK?
I
worry about the same damn thing as Rocky.
How do you know if your own house stinks if no one else lives
there? When I was raising three boys I
KNEW my house stunk, they knew it – hell, they were the reason for it – but it
was all our own sweat and pizza stench so it was fine. Probably others were bowled over when they
walked in the door; we didn’t know, didn’t care. But have you ever walked into the old-lady-with-the-newspapers-and-cat-house
and just thought, Holy mother of
God!. That’s probably what Adrienne
was worried about, and I’m sort of concerned for myself as well.
Listen,
I love my solitude. LOVE IT. Growing up
in a huge loud Italian household, peace and quiet was not optional and then I
raised three boys which was akin to being a zookeeper. Little boys, aside from being reckless and
loud, are vaguely odiferous all the time.
I mean, you can scrub them in a bath and towel dry them and within
seconds something’s marinating right away.
Also, I’ve been married a few times to grown-up men who also, well, were
guys. At this point I treasure being alone in bed because sleeping with another
human is tough, folks, at least for me. Sex, snoring, sweat, hot flashes, restless
legs, bad dreams – Geezus! I don’t think I had a full night’s sleep for
decades, but I’m starting to worry that I spend too much time by myself and
might start babbling in public or not washing my hair. I called a dear friend
who has lived alone for a decade, to ask her whether too much solitude can be a
bad thing.
“Shut
up a minute,” she said, which is a Jersey greeting for, Hey, how’s the family?, “I’m watching this giraffe in the Denver
zoo have a baby.”
And,
there’s my answer.
“No
kidding, there’s like 75,000 people watching right now!” she was so happy, “But
many are getting pretty pissed off that every time they sign on there’s no
little giraffe feet coming out the mama’s hoo-ha.”
She
went on to tell me how people were fighting about this in the comments
section. Virtual fighting about a
giraffe birth. Is this being social? Or
crazy? Who’s crazy – me who sings really
loud by myself all the time or “social” people who are angry at a pregnant
giraffe?
I was sweating
when I hung up the phone, but had no way to gauge how sweaty. Was I smelly
sweaty? Another friend of mine is a brilliant woman in the financial industry
who’s an expert in all things olfactory because she was born with an acute sense
of smell. We went hiking once and she
stopped dead at one point, shook her head and said,
“Hey,
did you smell that guy’s deodorant?”
I
didn’t of course but I was suddenly afraid that she had always been so kind to
me because she pitied me. There’s a rule
among backpackers when they’re out in the wilderness together for long periods
of time: nobody gets clean, period. If just one person “freshens up” it ruins
everything for the rest of us, so the protocol on the trail is just stay
smelly. I did 17 days in the wilderness
with Outward Bound and trust me, no one was clean but that’s a good thing. It’s kind of like the really smart kid who
ruins it for the lazy ones.
Aside from group
rules around dirt, nobody thinks their own shit stinks and let’s face it we all
must live with our own stench. But if
you live alone, how do you even know? I
guess Nature is crafty, protecting us from ourselves so that we turn a blind
nose to our own odors. How could you stand being with yourself otherwise? The
same is true for our own faults and character defects – you just don’t grasp
them, especially when you live alone.
Will I become that old lady with the hot house who screams at the kids git off my grass!!! Will I be Adrienne – Rocky’s mentally
challenged girlfriend who works at a pet store for company? Maybe I’ll be Rocky, the cranky fighter dude living
alone with his turtles, Cuff and Link.
Here’s
the thing: I am never lonely, not for a
second. Love surrounds me all the time
and my cup overflows. There’s nothing I
lack and when I want to connect with a human I make a call or take a walk. Meditation keeps me firmly grounded in the
FACT that I’m not alone. It’s a fact. I don’t see boundaries between people (or
animals, turtles, giraffes) and I know that I’m totally part of a big happy
cosmic soup. But honestly, I just wonder
if too much solitude will make me weirder than I already am.
So,
I’m working out the difference between solitude and isolation, being a loner
and being lonely, treasuring my privacy (unlike poor Alice, the mama giraffe in
the Denver zoo) and building walls to keep other’s out. Adrienne walked up those steps, remember, and
went timidly into Rocky’s house, which apparently did NOT stink. She met Cuff and Link and she and Rocky found
love which is Hollywood adorable. But I know that love is everywhere, that like
an aspen grove we are all connected at the root even though it looks like we
live separately. We don’t. I think I’ll stay engaged enough in the world
that I won’t spiral into isolation and bad hygiene. My house and my body will
be fine, because Love is always in the air.
I can smell it.
