My husband, CK, left for a year-long stint in Baghdad three months ago (actually, 83 days — but who’s counting?). I have to admit that after all the dread, being solo isn’t as bad as I’d feared. Of course, I miss him like a major organ — there’s no one to hold my hand at the dentist’s office, no one to read newspapers with in the Jardin du Luxembourg on a sunny Saturday, no one to cook for. There’s also a nagging undercurrent of worry tugging constantly upon my consciousness. But with my new job, window-box garden, forays to the market, freelance articles, and twitter updates all keeping me busy, I must confess that Paris isn’t exactly the worst place to be stranded.
The funny thing about living alone after eight years of companionship is how quickly one reverts right back to those old bad, bachelorette habits. Why bother folding the laundry when the dryer is a perfectly acceptable underwear drawer? Do I really need to do the dishes after dinner every night? And, speaking of dinner, why eat it at the table, when the TV (or computer) is so much more companionable?
And then there is the question of exactly what I am eating. Which, in recent weeks, can be summed up in one word: Sandwiches.
Yes, this self-proclaimed food enthusiast, who has the remarkable luck to live for a small window of time in Paris, has basically stopped cooking. Please don’t stone me.