We Are Never Meeting in Real Life




I am on the precipice of abandoning my whirlwind single-person existence for what is essentially a trust fall into my new relationship, but I cannot envision my life in a crib that has stairs. Or a crib with more than three rooms. Or a crib that has well-meaning neighbors who drop by without giving you a heads-up to take out the trash and hide your prescriptions prior to their arrival. I currently live across the hall from a person who, seemingly unprovoked, screams bloody murder. And upstairs from a person who sings arias in a lovely tenor at hours and decibels that regularly make me want to kill myself. Those people are referred to as Screaming Woman and Opera Dude, respectively. I am literally never going to talk to them. I will never know their real names. See also: Smooth-Jazz Guy and Bedhead Lady with Obvious Cats. If I walk into the building and see someone headed toward the elevator, I idle near the mailbox until I hear the gate slam shut, then hustle over to it before some equally awkward stranger comes home and ruins my meticulously executed plan for riding the elevator up to my floor in peace. I do my laundry at five on Monday mornings because I am generally very polite and four years ago I was forced into twenty minutes of witty banter with a decently hot gentleman while trying to hide behind my back a pair of underwear that needed pretreating. One night, Smooth-Jazz Guy and I exited our apartments at the same time, and I froze at my end of the hall, pretending I couldn’t possibly figure out which of the four keys on my key ring was the one that locked my door. I could just feel him waiting to say something about Peabo Bryson to me, and once I could finally stall no longer I walked toward him as he exclaimed, “Hey, [fellow black]! I never knew you lived here! Come by for a drink sometime!”

What’s worse than being stung to death by thousands of bees? Sitting in an apartment adjacent to yours balanced precariously on a stranger’s bed while sipping a glass of Chivas Regal and listening to Najee, or sitting in an apartment adjacent to yours balanced precariously on a stranger’s bed sipping a glass of Chivas Regal and listening to Najee?! I AM NEVER EVER DOING THAT. And it has nothing to do with him—I’m sure he’s charming and hospitable and has an incredible selection of Take 6 records. But yo, I would rather be mauled by that Revenant bear than strike up a friendship with someone who would inevitably do horrible things like “knock on my door” or “sign for my FedEx packages.” I have been alone for so long that the idea of community is legit terrifying to me. I’m anxious and easily flummoxed, and I don’t want anyone seeing the maxi pads in my trash or how many books I leave next to the toilet. I don’t want people to know that there’s only bologna and Crystal Light in my fridge. Seriously, I don’t want to have to explain why I have so many bottles of hand soap on each sink (I like variety, okay) and half-melted Diptyque candles scattered everywhere (I SAID I LIKE SOME GODDAMNED VARIETY).

The idea of being part of a community is daunting. Despite how open I am on the Internet, I am fiercely private IRL. Which is to say that I am often a hermit because I never want anyone to see my actual pores or clothes. I have grown increasingly uncomfortable with large groups of people, but this isn’t really that. This is more like “Why would you ever want to come inside where I live?” or “I just don’t get why we have to talk in your living room when there are dozens of perfectly good restaurants five minutes from here.” But this summer I am moving. To a neighborhood like one on TV. Where I have to keep a bra on all the time because kids are always just letting themselves in for impromptu playdates and you never know who might be dropping by with a bag of extra grapefruits from their CSA box or some vegan Korean food fresh from the farmers’ market. (That very specific example happened once, thank you, Sarah Hill!) In Chicago I have this tiny little universe that has a dead bolt and a door buzzer, but you’d never come over anyway because there’s nowhere to park and Opera Dude really does get in the way of meaningful conversation a lot of the time. However, in Michigan, we have giant windows with no blinds (WHITE PEOPLE), a skateboard ramp in the driveway, and a tire swing hanging from the big oak tree in the yard, and do I even need to finish this sentence? I will never be able to just let my tits hang ever again.

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