Advice for Sybarites
In Defense of the Homebody
I’m embracing a simple fact — I really like being at home
“What did you do last night?”
I once had a friend ask me this regularly. Her face would droop in pity at my typical answer.
As a teenager, you’d often find me alone in my room. It was my safe haven and creative space. It’s where I taught myself to play “Auld Lang Syne’’ from a Keyboard for Dummies book. It’s where I learned how to introduce myself in Korean and write Japanese katakana. (Kanji proved too intimidating for me to tackle on my own.)
My room had stacks of books and a small TV, VHS tapes and eventually DVDs. There were large sketch pads and thick journals, hours spent drawing and writing while hunched over on the carpeted floor.
My friend thought the way I spent my time was boring.
I did enjoy it when we hung out, our toes digging into warm sand during sunset-lit drum circles on the beach, or swaying to her brother’s live music at bars we were too young to be in.
But I also liked, and usually preferred, being alone to learn and create and dream.
In those days, I fantasized about a future when I’d have more space, an entire home to myself. A home where the blinds wouldn’t be broken by excited dogs who never stopped barking. A home that wouldn’t smell like cigarette smoke or animal urine. No perpetual sink of dirty dishes or angry landlords leaving threatening notes on the front door.
This is my home now, a space I’ve created with the perfect me-shaped cutout in the heart of it all.
I’m thirty-five now. My apartment is tidy and bright with white walls and skylights. Green plants fill in the spaces around the perimeter of the living room. It smells like cinnamon in here. Sometimes fresh laundry or lavender or whatever meal I’ve just cooked. I don’t sweep as much as I should, but the dishes are always clean.
There’s a loft and a small closet for my clothes that comes up just past my waist. The floor is tilted. There are more skylights. The tapping of rain on the glass is my favorite sound to sleep to.
This is my home, a space I’ve created with the perfect me-shaped cutout in the heart of it all.
When I first moved to this city, I lived in the arts and entertainment district amidst blocks of bars and restaurants and art galleries. On weekends, the foot traffic never ceased and cars and motorcycles revved nonstop, speeding too quickly down High Street.
I frequented a little cocktail lounge next to my building, getting tipsy on complicated drinks with ingredients I couldn’t pronounce or remember.
I told myself I had to go out. How could I stay in when there was so much happening right outside my door? I had to throw myself into the mix, be a part of something. I couldn’t move here and be boring, the worst thing of all things.
I pictured my old friend. What did you do last night? Her face of disappointment, of pity.
It was fun sometimes. All the people, the noise, the movement. Sometimes my boyfriend and I would go out just to wander up and down the sidewalks, neon lights overhead, girls running across the street in dresses that sparkled. We’d pause at the large windows of the paint and sip place to see what they were creating. We ended up going ourselves a few times.
Eventually though, I began to retreat. I wanted to spend my evenings wrapped in the warmth of my living room. I wanted to drink a glass of wine in my small kitchen, turn in circles while I cooked.
One Sunday morning, I woke up to find the front door of the apartment building with its window smashed.
My lease was almost up. I found another apartment about ten minutes away in the quiet neighborhood of German Village.
It feels like everything closes early here. You walk through the streets at night and see people sitting around small tables on their front porches. There are twinkle lights and lanterns, the sounds of conversation and quiet laughter. Bunnies dart across the red bricks and disappear into backyards.
This is more my speed.
I do happily leave the house for lots of reasons. Long conversations over pastries during slow mornings at coffee houses. Lazy strolls through farmers markets, making small talk with the vendors. Art festivals, matinees, the occasional happy hour.
I can even be convinced to go out at night for the right reasons. Drunk PowerPoint, for example, is an event that happens monthly and the faces there are familiar and friendly. I also appreciate our local comedy scene and just bought tickets to a show with a secret location that won’t be announced until the day of.
I chose the early showtime. It’s my ideal formula — go out, be a human in the world, then hurry home to burrow into bed at a reasonable time.
There’s a balance to strike here, an appreciation for spending time elsewhere. It helps me further embrace a simple fact:
I really like being at home.
I’m just finally allowing myself to do what I want without the fear of looking boring.
I’ve had my share of late night Long Islands, throwing myself around small dance floors with my jacket tossed somewhere near the DJ booth. I have a particularly fond memory of closing down a bar and sitting on a Cincinnati sidewalk at two o’clock in the morning, my face buried in a tinfoil-wrapped burrito.
These memories are special. But I don’t necessarily want to make more of them. And it’s not because people in their thirties (or older) can’t or shouldn’t. I’m just finally allowing myself to do what I want without the fear of looking boring.
I like to retire with the sun. I close blinds, light candles, unfold blankets. I get out my Kindle, tuck my feet under me. At the risk of sounding predictable, there is usually tea involved. Mugs and mugs of peppermint tea.
I’ve begun spending more time at my boyfriend’s apartment, too. I’ll read a book on the couch and he’ll sit a few feet away shouting things while playing DOTA. We take breaks to cuddle, watch anime, make food. It’s my home away from home.
I was giddy when we went out recently and at the strike of midnight he turned to me. “Ready to go?”
I had been having fun, sure, but it was still music to my ears. Usually by midnight I’ve already been in bed for hours.
A couple of months ago, I spent New Year’s Eve alone. I drank sparkling grape juice in an homage to my late grandma while Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen got drunk on TV.
Watching the crowd in Times Square, I was reminded of my own smaller scale experience years ago at Fountain Square in Cincinnati. My friends and I formed a small huddle, jumping up and down to stay warm while we waited for the countdown to start.
Again, another special memory. But this year, as I sat comfortably swallowed in an oversized hoodie on my couch, I was content. I was exactly where I wanted to be.
I am paying respect to my teenage self and prioritizing my desire to be cozy.
What did you do last night?
I stayed home. And it was perfect.
