The other day, as I sat in my living room, surveying my little house, this thought came to mind:
"I don't think I want to share this. This is MY house. I bought it ... with my own hard-earned money. I'm filling it with the things that I love, and they are MY ideas that I want to institute in all the renovations in the coming months and years. I'm just not sure I want to share this."
Granted, I actually do share the house with a demanding, spoiled-rotten Maine Coon that tends to fill it will all sorts of hair balls that roll around all over the place like tumble weed. But my main point was that I'm not sure, at this point in my life, I could share my space. I like that it's MINE. I like that if I want to paint everything Pepto-Bismal Pink, I can, and I don't have to consult one single person.
My married or living-together friends all have to consult on decorating decisions. I don't, and I like it.
Now, when things like my toilet overflows ... TWICE ... it's at those times I think, "Hmmm .... it would be nice to have someone that could fix this."
However, the more I think about it, the more I think perhaps I should just have folks like Lawn Boy, Plumbing Dude, and Maintainence Man all on retainer. They can do what they are paid to do and then leave. No questions asked.
I guess that means that I'm ...
a.) becoming set in my ways.
b.) Litte Miss Independent