Someone once told me to never walk alone. Yes, it was my mother, and yes, she meant all the time. She expects me to be with my sister at all times (because I usually am) and she expects me to be cautious because of what's been happening around here. But sometimes I'm not in the same place at the same time as my companion, and as far as caution goes, I've been carrying steak knives in my purse, even though that's probably more dangerous for me than for my attacker. So I do walk alone, quite often, between classes and to the gym and to the library and back to my apartment. I always walk fast because I will never get running to AP English senior year out of my system, and I always walk like a duck because that's the way my feet choose to roll. Sometimes it's dark and sometimes it's raining, and usually I'm pretending to text when I see someone I kind of sort of don't want to see. And I am the only one on the sidewalk, all by my lonesome. And until a few months ago, this would not have bothered me in the least.
This summer I decided working was not really going to fit into my schedule of tanning, sleeping, reading Sue Grafton, eating gourmet meals and napping in between all of the above. I mastered the art of the tan line, I was always well-rested and I could probably have written my own mystery novel by now. But I was lonely. Incredibly lonely. Sure, I had my sister - who felt the same way about preserving our schedule - and my mother and my dogs and sometimes my brother when he wasn't out wreaking havoc. I had a car to go places and friends who were in town. It seemed that I had the world at my feet for three sweet months. Yet I longed for something.
Some things have nagged me for all of my life. They are inchoate, fleeting and always leave me feeling disconcerted. This one was really confusing me. I consider myself pretty much an introvert. I crave social experiences just as much as the next person, but I am most comfortable on my own. I don't need a library buddy or a gym buddy or a lunch buddy. Sometimes I simply want a one-on-one experience with whatever I am doing. I generally scoff at people who can't walk a square foot without someone to talk to. I think, "Wow, must not be Ayn Rand fans." I smile my conceited smile and stroll off with my head up, crashing into a pole in my holier-than-thou trance. And I have no one to walk those square feet with me after.
In the midst of my inexplicable summer funk, my family took a trip down to Ocracoke Island, N.C. If you've never been there, just imagine a Norman Rockwell painting of a tiny town on a tiny island with smiling faces and seafood galore. This was the perfect vacation for the introverted me: I could read on the beach all day and peel shrimp with my family at night. I was tempted to jump into this routine when that something began to ache. I tried and tried but couldn't shake the feeling. So I decided to fix it.
I was afraid at first. That end of summer vacation was the first step. Instead of running from the something, I let it consume me, and it told me to slow down my speedy gait and wait for others to catch up. I wasn't so brave for always walking by myself and reading by myself and smashing into poles by myself. I'd always thought that if I had my sister and my close friends, the rest of the world could be acquaintances and I needn't bother with them often. Even my close friends would have to fit into my schedule of alone time. It wasn't easy, planning all these ways to close myself off; it was exhausting.
I knew the something was right about me when I started needing people. It wasn't that I needed my family; I've always longed for their love and approval. It was that I needed others. I needed to hear my best friend's version of that story that one night at that place - "don't you remember?" - not to remember, but because I realized I loved her stories. And simply having a best friend with good stories was not enough; I needed to hang out with other human beings in all of my alone places. I'd had enough one-on-one experiences with my philosophy reading; I wanted someone to join me in this endeavor.
I became better friends with my best friends and formed late-night bonds with people I've known for less than a year. I blurted out secrets I'd only had for a few days and empathized with others who seemed to have similar unspoken experiences. My huge head deflated, and I realized that it was acceptable to be vulnerable and transparent and part of a bigger crowd. The introverted me was incredibly confused and caught up and concerned. Where did the assertive, determined speed-walker go? She was down the sidewalk, alone, with no somethings that could match her pace.
Mary Scott's column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at ms.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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