My space, having nothing to do with MySpace

As an only child, I grew up with a good amount of personal space. I had my own bedroom, my own bathroom, and because my mom typically worked late evenings, my own dinner in front of my own TV which played whichever program I chose to watch. Unlike most of my friends, I never had to deal with siblings fighting to change the channel, vie for parental attention, or bother me in the least. And this suited me just fine. I like to think that the constant quiet allowed my imagination to thrive, uninterrupted, and the imposed autonomy set forth an internal confidence with which I still carry today.

That's not to say I was spoiled, necessarily, or one of those annoying sheltered kids that can't adapt when you give them a taste of the real world. The epitome of the adaptable, sociable Gemini, I happily spent my summers sharing camp cabins with no less than 10 other girls, and for one year, a sorority house with 26 more. I'm even still friends with every roommate I've ever had. But I still really like - no, need - my space, and I tend to get a little bit of agita if I go too long without some peace and quiet.

So, it was kind of hard this weekend sharing my one-bedroom, thin-walled apartment with my mother. One one hand, she is the ultimate houseguest - neat, quiet as a mouse, considerate, washes my dishes, gets me coffee just as I'm waking up so by the time my contacts are in, it's just the right temperature. (Okay, I'm a little bit spoiled.) On the other hand, I have a one-bedroom, thin-walled apartment.

A naturally early riser whose internal clock has been set to EST, my mom woke every day around 4 AM. Even though she tried to keep quiet, I would hear from the next room, acutely aware of the change in energy. My first few mornings were clouded by Vicodin, so I was able to turn over and continue in slumber; but by Sunday I woke when she did, agitated by the slightest rustle of sheets or steps on my squeaky floorboards. Were I a more patient girl, I would have smiled with comfort and fallen back asleep reassured by my familial company; but, patience has never been one of my strong points and it just made me annoyed. (Okay, I'm a LOT spoiled.) Of course, the fact that I was annoyed just made feel supremely guilty, since the whole reason my mom had made the trip was to make sure I comfortably survived the pulling of the wisdom teeth, and here I was contemplating how I might slip her two of my Vicodin.

It makes me wonder: having spent nearly 30 years alone, following my own schedule, my own personal whims, will I ever be able to adapt to someone else's life? Not that I'm there now, but will I ever be able to live with someone, like a husband, who might not want me to drug him just so I can get a good night sleep?

I dropped my mom off at the airport today at noon, and instead of relishing my freedom I immediately longed for her return. I guess like the best of sisters, we can co-exist in a tiny apartment and spat out fights in one hour, and collapse in giggles in the next. Her restless energy is both exhausting and contagious - and I know, the genetic source of my own. She's the most fun person with whom anyone would ever want to share a bottle of wine, and she's the one person who genuinely shares my enthusiasm over the offerings at Whole Foods or the discovery of a new South Beach frozen pizza.

Tonight, my apartment seems too quiet, empty. My couch is still indented with the spot she sat in for four days, quietly reading her book, sipping her drinks; the empty space looks lonely, like it's waiting for her return. I don't dare sit in it yet.

Tonight, I guess, I will sleep through the night, uninterrupted; but tomorrow will be a lot less fun to wake up to without her here.