Five Reasons Why Being Alone is Healthy

A list to share with your mom who wants you to make some friends already



Photo by Andrea Piacquadio from Pexels.

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Sure, the Pandemic made us take a different look at the concept of being alone. And being locked up in our homes. And also breathing. But that’s all behind us now. Mostly.

What remains is rampant introversion, widespread social awkwardness, and large pockets of agoraphobia.

I’m here to ask: Is that so bad?

I’m also here to tell you that maybe it isn’t. Let me give you plenty of justification, er, reasons why being alone is great!

If I can do it you can too.

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You never have to question who ate all of the pizza rolls

Also, no one judges you when you DoorDash oh-so-many more. None of this “Are you going to eat all of that?” and “Don’t you think you have a problem?”

No, eat and burn the roof of your mouth to your heart’s content, judgment free.

Plus, eating without judgment is healthy:

How to Stop Judging Your Food Choices Once and for All


Showers? Eh, optional

You can wait to bathe until you are too funky for yourself and that bar is certainly higher than when someone else has to smell you. Saves on time, saves on water. Win-win.

Besides, showering less often is healthy:

In The Era Of Hygiene, ‘Clean’ Author Makes The Case For Showering Less


You can sleep in the middle of the bed

You can also sleep sprawled out like a starfish. Snore as much as you’d like with zero elbows to the ribs. Just you and as many pillows as makes you happy. You can have all of the blankets and all of the mattress, too. Embrace all that sleep. It’s beautiful.

Also, sleeping alone is healthy. Wait, that’s not actually what the research says. Hmm. Well, despite that, plenty of people still say they’d rather sleep alone:

In defense of sleeping solo: 60 percent of you prefer your own bed


Breaking wind. Passing Gas. Tooting.

This is the best benefit of living alone. We were all thinking it. I am just not ashamed to say it. And do it. Loud, proud, and without hesitation. No need to say excuse me. No holding it in or going to another room to let it out. No trying to silently squeak it out. No, your grandma was right: better out than in. Give it a little vibrato if you can. Be proud of your accomplishment.

In colloquial terms, let ‘er rip. It’s healthy:

Why Farting Is Good for You


Follow your creative pursuits without interruption

You can paint without judgment. Write without someone peering over your shoulder. Sing loudly without that pesky side eye. Yes, while alone you can really let yourself be and give over to The Muses. Creative pursuits take time and you can devote however much time you want when you are alone, no need to feel guilty about taking time away from family.

And in case you didn’t know, being alone might just make you more creative:

Do you need to be alone to be creative? Here’s what the experts say

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Taken all together, I am pretty proud of the case I have presented here for the benefits of being alone. It’s great! Everyone should do it.

Separately and not together, I mean.

Okay, fine. Being alone does have its benefits but it also has some big drawbacks. When being alone becomes being lonely, that can cause some real mental and physical concerns. I think a lot of that has recently come to light during and now post-pandemic.

Here’s some analysis to consider:

Being Alone: The Pros and Cons of Time Alone

I hate to say that Mom may be right about you (and me) needing to get out of the house a little, but she may be right. That pains me to say.

I guess at the end of that day, it’s like the old saying goes:

All things in moderation.

Except pizza rolls. Those are no limit all day every day.

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This post was originally published on Medium and more of my work can be found over there @karenfayeth.

A Writer Tries and Fails to Find A Metaphor in The Mud

Onion Scented Inspiration

 

Image by Mabel Amber from Pixabay

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When historic levels of rain and snow came through California this past winter, phrases like “atmospheric rivers” and “bomb cyclones” became just another Tuesday for those of us living in the Bay Area.

After each crazy storm ended, I would put on my muddin’ boots and find my way out to the wild and unkempt backyard to assess the latest damage.

I live in a rental home, and our yard has been neglected for years by several generations of tenants so it’s a bit wild and untamed. I like to garden and I work on it a little at a time, but it’s a lot.

As I pull back the layers of abandoned trash and weeds, I keep finding little surprises. Nature does have an admirable way of prevailing, even when we humans don’t keep up our end of the bargain.

One such little surprise arrived when I moved a plant pot that had sat in place for many months. In the soil underneath I found a tiny snakelike creature.

The conversation went like this (because yes, I talk to the wildlife), “Oh, let’s see, what are you? Are you a worm? Wait. You have arms and legs? WHAT?!”

Turns out I had found something called a California Slender Salamander. I have since found three more. Cute little things. A little creepy. But also cute.


The Odorous Discovery

After carefully returning the salamander to its home, and going about my business dumping water out of several overloaded plant pots, I finally got around to draining out a very large bucket that was filled with a variety of garden items.

I poured out black water, oh my did it stink. In addition to the rotting and molding funk, I could smell the very distinct aroma of onions.

I wondered to myself “Did that water get so gross it now smells like onions? Is that even possible”

As I continued to tromp around the yard, I kept smelling what was a fresh oniony smell and not a rotting leaf sort of oniony smell.

It took me a while but I finally looked down between my rubber boots and saw ’em. Green onions. In my yard. Everywhere.

The rains had come and apparently brought onions to the yard.

I didn’t remember onions being in the yard last year. Did birds or squirrels poop out seeds in our yard? Did the heavy rains wash onion seeds down the hill? Were onion seeds buried deep in the soil and the heavy rains brought them out?

I had no idea. What I did know was that I had several patches of green onion all over the place.

As I yanked them from the muck, I had a moment of clarity. “Oh,” I said aloud to the scrub jay supervising my work (I told you, I talk to wildlife), “That’s why the British call them Spring onions. It makes sense. I’d always wondered.”

There were a lot of onions and since onions’ main defense mechanism is their aroma, the more I yanked, the more my yard smelled like onion.


But where’s the metaphor?

Since I am a writer and observer of the world, I thought that these unasked for and unwanted onions were perhaps a good opportunity for a metaphor.

I envisioned a whole neatly written, clever, and profound essay where I tied the onions to something in my writing mind.

Say, for example, surprises grow among the clover. You never know what you might find when you explore the wilds of your brain.

Or maybe, be careful tromping around in the wilds of your brain, you might stumble upon something stinky and eye-watering.

Perhaps, you might plant green grass but be ready for green onions instead.

Nah, you know, none of those really seem to work. I’m pressing here.

I really thought I could be writerly and make a metaphor happen.

I guess sometimes an onion is just an onion.

And sometimes when I want to write something profound, what I get is squappity**.

So I guess I’ll keep exploring the wilds of both my yard and my brain trying to yank out both the real and the metaphorical green onions.

Tears are optional

—

** Squappity is one of my favorite made up words meaning nothing, nada, the mental equivalent of TV static.

—

This post was originally published on Medium and more of my work can be found over there @karenfayeth.

I’m All Out of Vices

A Tale of Involuntary Clean Living



Photo by Edward Howell on Unsplash

—

February of 2020 proved to be the convergence of a lot of change. The big one we all know. That one is still impacting our lives over three years later.

But little did I know that would also be the final act of my monthly cycle. Yep, February 2020 was the official start of my menopause. Since menopause is defined by going a full year without a period, I could only know that February 2020 was the last one twelve months later. Had I known I might have lit a candle. Baked a cake. Held a Bon Voyage party.

What I also didn’t know in February 2020 was that it would be the last time my hairdresser and dear friend would put color in my hair. I began growing out my gray roots in those strange COVID times and just kept going. I’m still not sure I embrace my gray, but it’s mine.

Turns out February 2020 was a significant inflection point for the world and for me.

—

My monthly cycles had always been at best uneasy and at worst downright awful. They were so regular I could set a watch by them, but in my early twenties I was diagnosed with mittleschmerz which is just a German way of saying ‘middle pain.’

This meant very painful ovulations in the middle of each cycle. This pain would last my entire adult life. Bonus? I always knew when I was ovulating. Downside? Every time I ovulated it made me hurt so bad I wanted to throw up.

In my thirties, I was also diagnosed with Premenstrual Dysmorphic Disorder, or PMDD. To call it a severe form of PMS is to call a tornado a severe form of wind. The PMDD was a 28-day mental, physical, and emotional roller coaster ride where I felt good for about four to five of those days.

I remember back then thinking how menopause was going to be great. I couldn’t wait to get rid of these awful monthly cycles of agony. Not having periods meant no more pain and the end of the hormonal nightmare, right? It’s cute that I thought having no period would be a cakewalk.

—

My hormones had so many more surprises in store. With the change came incredible joint pain. Overwhelming fatigue. Brain fog so bad at times I am still certain I have early-onset dementia despite being assured by my medical team that all is well.

I have read and researched and looked for help and I have found many women telling me “It doesn’t have to be so bad.”

Well, yes and no.

Traditional medicine doesn’t have a lot to say. My regular doctor sent me to a menopause specialist who gave me antidepressants for the hot flashes that I told her I only rarely had. She had little to say about the fatigue and memory issues and sent me away saying, “I hear yoga helps?”

Next, I tried a naturopath who did really listen and offered quite a lot of help. Within six months, my situation considerably improved. I was starting to feel better, and as the fog and pain eased, it became clear to me that in my fifties, it was finally time for me to do a much better job of taking care of myself. Something I had ignored for quite some time.

So, back to the regular doctor. “I actually want to exercise,” I told her, and I meant it. I began to eat better. I finally admitted that my lactose intolerance wasn’t something I could pretend I didn’t have.

Also, I grudgingly acknowledged that every time I ate bread products that I craved so much and my stomach bloated up and hurt that maybe, just maybe, I needed to stop ignoring that too.

I ate more vegetables. I vastly reduced the amount of sugar I consumed even though sugar and sugary food is my comfort. And then, something happened that I never could have imagined.

I stopped drinking.

I have never been a big drinker, but boy did I love a couple of glasses of red wine or maybe some bourbon at the end of the week. In menopause, how my body metabolized alcohol changed and I had to stop drinking just to see if it made me feel better, and it did.

—

So here I am, still working on myself.

I’ve never been a fan of tobacco and nicotine. I’ve tried multiple forms of pot and didn’t like it. Anything harder than that is off the table. I don’t drink. I don’t eat wheat. I rarely eat cheese. I eat sugar but in far smaller amounts. I once had a thing for binge shopping but even that isn’t interesting anymore.

These days I find myself, curiously, without vices. Me, the person who chased all kinds of vices and comforts and mind-numbing agents for the first fifty years of my life.

This is so unexpected.

I often ask myself, “what will I do when I have that really bad day and I want to sink into something that will dull my mind?” And honestly, I don’t know anymore. Yeah, okay, I can get out a pint of oat milk ice cream but come on, the decadence factor just isn’t there.

What do I use to celebrate big news? Non-alcoholic spirits seem to be having a moment. I did try the Seedlip brand, and while tasty, it’s just never going to be that same warm numb feeling as pouring a glass of amber liquor.

—

This isn’t a complaint, I guess. I feel better than I have in years. Someone commented recently that my face has changed. I haven’t lost any weight, but I think I am less puffy. Less inflamed.

Less inflammation means less joint pain. Less joint pain makes me rather content.

I have always been the type to seek food and drink and other mild to moderately addictive behavior as a way to comfort the aches and pains of everyday life. The past three years of my life have been filled with change and loss and grief.

So now, during what is arguably the most painful time of my life, no one is more surprised than me to find I no longer want to find ways to forget but rather I seek ways to stay present. To feel what I feel and figure out how to cope with that.

Huh. I’m evolving. It’s the weirdest (and most beautiful) damn thing. Who knew menopause would make me a better person?

—

This post was originally published on Medium and more of my work can be found over there @karenfayeth.

Wait, what?



Wait, what? I have a story published in Chicken Soup for the Soul? Yessss!!!
 
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Lessons Learned from My Cat, in stores tomorrow, February 14, 2023



That’s me! Page 191!! “Status Report” is about trying to put a cat on a diet. Lesson Learned? Don’t.


I’ve learned plenty from Dahlia, who was adopted on this day, eight years ago (when she was 4 years old). Each year I give thanks Berkeley Humane for taking care of our girl until we could find her. Royalties from every copy of Chicken Soup for The Soul: Lessons Learned from My Cat go to American-Humane, the country’s first national humane organization.


Uh oh, Dahlia just realized the story isn’t about her. It’s about Gypsy our lovely, naughty, food loving cat who looked a whole lot like the cat on the cover of the book. We miss her, she was a great cat.

Still Life with Acorn


a small bunch of oak leaves and acorns

Acorn from the neighbor’s tree, ©2022 Karen Fayeth

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It’s one of those Bay Area days where the so-called Marine Layer is in and it’s clinging to the treetops. Not quite fog, not quite overcast. Just dark gray and low, kind of like my mood.

I’ve no reason to be glum, but I have to admit on an overcast day, it’s kind of hard to be chipper. There are certain people who get energy from the gray skies. As a sun loving New Mexican, that ain’t me.

But overcast skies do make for lovely photography. Thanks to the generous overhang of our neighbor’s oak tree, we have a plethora of acorns littering our yard. They plink off the eaves and bounce heavily on the rooftop. Our local squirrels are shoving them in every corner and crevice and I swear we’re going to have an explosion of oak trees in our yard next year.

I do enjoy the squirrelly surreptitious dig-dig-dig, bury, pat-pat-pat, look around to be sure the pesky crows and scrub jays didn’t see, dash off routine happening outside my office window right now.

I went outside to clear my head a bit and found the lovely little still life you see at the top of this post. Easy snap, full of a feeling of memory and thoughts. Now that matches my mood.

Autumn really is a nice time of year, and Halloween is soon enough. Hey, that gives me an idea. maybe I need a big bowl of candy? That will surely help my mood. For a minute or two, anyway…