After 30 Years of Cohabitation, I’m Reveling in the Joy of Living Alone

With two divorces and several live-in partners behind her, our writer is finally doing whatever she wants.

This morning was a typical one in my house: I woke up and drank my first cup of coffee in utter silence, after which I popped into my bathroom to do my thing with the door wide open. Then I listened to Rob Zombie’s “Dragula,” LOUDLY, I might add, as I practiced drums ahead of a 9:30 Zoom call. I chatted with a few friends, texted another to plan for a walk, then did the crossword puzzle and talked with the dog, who is excellent company. Perhaps all the company I need these days. 

Some math for you: I’ve lived with two spouses, various partners, one gloriously perfect child, and several sets of lovely stepchildren for the majority of my adult life. If we’re using college graduation as a marker, I have cohabitated for 30 of the past 34 years. With the exception of the latter half of my second marriage, I regret none of it. 

But with all seriousness and (almost) no gloating… that is one gloriously delicious silent cup of coffee. I’m not sure I’d be able to give it up.

In this, I am not alone—at least when it comes to women in midlife. A study published in 2019 followed 6,675 people aged 35 to 59 living alone over the course of six years. At the end, researchers found that women were the ones most likely to have stayed roommate-free. “It was as if once they got a taste of a place of their own, they found that they really liked it,” writes Bella DePaulo Ph.D. for Psychology Today. “They no longer wanted to find someone to live with, if they ever did.”

Another study of seniors reports that women thrive more than men when living alone because they have more time for their own personal interests (hello, playing drums in a band). While men have more time to do what they like when they live with someone—namely a wife—because that someone is doing everything for them. Of course, this was a study of people from a different generation, and sure, there are some men out there who do their part around the house.

I was eating dinner with a friend the other day, a truly independent woman, who, like me, has been through the emotional wringer in many ways, but who is now in what appears to be a pretty damn good relationship. Over oysters, she told me that one of the things she loves most about her man is how good, kind, and considerate he is. He shares chores in their home without being asked, does things like really clean the bathroom. “Sometimes I feel like a princess,” she told me, and this friend deserves nothing less. For that matter, we all deserve nothing less.

But this is not enough to compel me to wish upon a star and conjure up such pampering for myself. I’ve had some pretty posh living arrangements over the years, with the most conscientious and generous partners, but when I’m single, I’m not daunted by the responsibilities that come with living alone. In fact, I like them. 

I can break down my own recycling, fill my own Brita pitcher, and empty my own dishwasher. While I don’t begrudge anyone who is happy for the companionship of another, the notion of a companionship that features a honey-do list leaves me cold. 

OK, there is one utterly mundane chore that when done for me feels like an actual turn on: taking the garbage cans to the curb. I love this so much that when a male pal stays with me he makes a very big deal of getting it done. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday,” he’ll text me after he’s gone. “Wish I was there to do my thing.” Garbage day might be my love language. 

But for the most part, I can do it myself. I own my house; I am my own boss. 

I’ve lived solo on and off since the end of my second marriage ten years ago and took to it like a fish to water, even when my son was little. My last live-in partner and I split in 2022 but we always maintained two residences (my current home in upstate New York and in Astoria, Queens, his stomping grounds), so when we split, that part was an easy “go your own way.” 

Though I am currently on a self-imposed time out from dating, I’m most certainly not a “never again” person when it comes to love. I assume I’ll have new romantic chapters in my future, and living together might enter that discussion—whether I like it or not.

I have friends who would prefer to live solo, but their partners wanted to shack up, so shack up they did. They are “dealing,” as several have said, but happy? Not especially. And let’s not even get started on the friends who “tolerate” their partners. The type who will not get divorced, in fear of having to start again (particularly when that includes the holy fuck of online dating), never admitting that they often want to stab their beloveds while they sleep.

Compromise is part of being an adult, and cohabitation is a compromise. It can be a wonderful one, but it can also make you pull your fucking hair out. 

Perhaps when your beloved does the laundry, taking a potentially hated chore off of your plate, they put your favorite sweater in the dryer (the one with the label that clearly reads “lay flat to dry”) and shrinks it down to Danny DeVito size, if Danny DeVito liked crop tops. And all you can do is grit your teeth and smile sweetly when your beloved says you should be grateful they did the laundry in the first place. 

I prefer to do my own laundry, thank you very much. 

Also, there is no one here to fight with me about why we can’t keep that old armchair from your parents’ house or why I like the towels hung up on the bathroom rack that way. There is no one to make a face because I’ve brought home fresh flowers again this week.

And kids? There are none of them living here (DNA-related or just happy coincidence connected because I’m fucking their parent); no one who might knock over a piece of pottery that I bought at auction and placed on, yes, a ridiculously and precariously positioned end table. But you know what? I live alone and know how to step lightly around that end table. 

I’ve spent an inordinate number of years living with hamsters, pulling leaking magic markers from under my sofa cushions, and fishing out wet bathing suits from bedroom hampers just as they start to smell mildewy (and that was my ex’s, not his kids).

Now I can focus on myself, something that for many women, feels long overdue. In another study that looked at men and women spending time alone, it was again, the women who said they enjoyed it more. Notably, they also felt they hadn’t gotten enough of it in their lives.  

My alone time is a non-negotiable at this point, unless I truly cannot live without your body next to mine. If I’m not seizing up with passion at the very thought of you, I don’t want to live with you. That’s a tall order but I’m standing firm. 

Maybe that makes me sound like an unrealistic asshole. Or a sex fiend. Perhaps, both? But I’m of the mind that unless I crave it (vanilla birthday cake for breakfast, linguine carbonara at midnight, eight hours of interrupted sleep, the body I had when I lived in the city and walked 10,000 steps every day), I don’t want it in my house 24/7. 

I’ve joked many times that the coffee mug I received as a present in college which read, “If you can’t eat it, smoke it, or fuck it, you might as well throw it away” was spot on.

Now, as I wrap up my day, I’m thinking about my scintillating agenda for the evening. Just back from band practice, having eaten a tiny bit of the Bengali salmon curry that I made the other night when I was in the mood for Bengali salmon curry, I’m going to shower and moisturize every damn inch of my body. (Did you ever notice that as you age, moisturizing becomes a full-time job?) Then once I am shiny like an oil slick, I’m going to snap in a set of teeth-whitening molds, load up my arms with the newest stack of cookbooks that I’ve amassed, and slide into bed with all the pillows and the dog. 

I have houseguests coming this weekend and possibly dinner on Sunday with a friend who is passing through the Hudson Valley on his way back to Brooklyn. Emphasis on “possibly,” because I may want to cancel, and instead wash my kitchen floor, watch my latest binge, What We Do In The Shadows, and finish this fucking cashmere infinity scarf that I’ve been knitting since September. In other words, it’s good to be the Queen.