“Well, don’t burn the candle at both ends,” my mum said over the phone as I recounted my plans for the week, speed-walking to the station in the December rain. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” I lied, hanging up and jumping on the Tube just as the doors slid shut behind me. She was right, as mums usually are: by that point, the candle had burned down to a stub.
I’ve been addicted to being busy for as long as I can remember, throwing myself into my work and social life full-tilt. Like a true Virgo, every hour of my days would historically be planned to a tee: HIIT class at 7, work at 10, a gig, movie or drinks to finish the day. When the weekend came around, it was chock-a-block with house parties and festivals and hungover walks through Hackney—because God forbid I waste a day “chilling” when I could be out enjoying this city I was paying so much to exist in. Friends had to be “booked in” weeks in advance, and I had to frantically rejig my diary if the guy I liked suggested a last-minute hang. There was little room for impulsivity; spontaneity scared me. Stillness scared me even more. I blamed London, as though the city itself was writing in my calendar, taking control of my limbs, and marching me out of the door, forcing me to say “yes” to a plan when I knew I probably needed a night in.
Of course, it wasn’t London’s fault. Granted, living in a big city means a faster pace of life, but my crazy diary-filling regime was entirely self-imposed. Since then, I’ve realised that, if you’re single, it’s especially difficult not to succumb to pressures to “show face,” “get out there,” and “meet new faces” at every opportunity. What if your one Friday night at home means missing out on meeting your future soulmate—someone good at cooking and with a stupid silver hoop earring, just like you manifested? Even if you’re not desperate to meet someone, should you really be binge-watching Girls and eating Charlie Bigham’s lasagna in bed when you could be finding a name to drop in at Christmas dinner when the conversation edges too close to “expiration dates”? What about all those “day in my life” girls who get up at 5 a.m. to do a 10K run and hair mask, but still have the energy for a Raya date after work? They never make excuses.
The thing is, it’s much more acceptable to be a hermit if you have someone to come home to; if you’re coupled up, there’s no pressure to be endlessly lining up Hinge dates or locking eyes with strangers in clubs. You don’t have to be constantly “bettering yourself,” either: going to the gym, expanding your social circle, indulging in hobbies to make yourself seem more interesting. And if rotting in bed with a significant other is romantic, rotting alone is “tragic,” lazy, a waste of time.