Isolation

When I first started talking about telecommuting, it seemed so many people in my life tried to discourage me by saying, “you’d be too lonely,” or “I can’t see you doing that; you’re going to be so isolated,” or “how are you going to meet people?” People advised if I were going to do it, I’d better try to find others in town who telecommute and have regular lunches together with them. I wish I weren’t so impressionable. They actually had me worried. I pictured myself completely cut off from the outside world. No one would ever call me. I’d never meet anyone new. I’d be like that weirdo on an episode of Law and Order: SVU I saw, who never left his apartment. He did all his shopping online and only communicated with people via email. And then there were injuries to think about. What if I fell down the stairs and broke my back? I could be lying there for hours before Bob, the only human being with whom I’d ever have contact, came home to find me.

Then I snapped out of it and realized this was me. Despite a life-long fear of not being liked and having no friends, I’ve never lacked for company. In fact, sometimes when people extol one of the virtues of doing something as “It’s a great way to meet people,” I feel like coming back with, “That’s nice, but can you please tell me a great way to get rid of people instead?” It’s not that I don’t dearly love all my friends. I do. It’s just that I get invited to do way too many things, things that sound like great fun with people I adore, people I don’t want to let down by saying “no,” a word that doesn’t much like to exit my mouth. But before I know it, I'll discover it’s Tuesday night, I’m booked solid every evening for the next week and a half, and I want to kill myself, because did I mention I’m also someone who desperately needs lots and lots of time alone?

And then, it seems, I’m always meeting more really fun and interesting people, and I’m inviting them to do things with me before I can help it. Sometimes I think life would be so much easier if I were just a complete misanthrope. Imagine what it would be like to be able to say, “No, I don’t want to be introduced to Joe. I hate people,” or “Thank you, but it wasn’t very nice to meet you, so please don’t ever call me.” Then, on those cold, rainy nights just meant for curling up with some classic DVD I know I love accompanied by a pot of tea, I wouldn’t find myself dashing from the car to arrive soaking wet in a freezing movie theater to watch some movie I’m not really sure I even want to see. Nor would I find myself rattled by a phone call just when I was in the midst of learning how to make my own cinnamon rolls. I wouldn’t have to pretend I’m sick to avoid attending a party full of strangers (I’d rather find myself sharing a jail cell with Hannibal Lechter than to have to attend a party full of total strangers).

So, no need to worry about my becoming isolated. Isolation sounds great to me. As a matter of fact, leave me alone. Act as though I don’t exist. Have parties and invite everyone I know, but don’t invite me. Then, I can curl up all by myself and spend my evenings wallowing in self-pity, wondering “What’s wrong with me? Why doesn’t anybody like me? Why can’t I meet people?”