I spent my 20s living with multiple roommates in multiple neighborhoods in New York City. I’d never picked out a bathmat or been able to identify all the food in the fridge.
On the cusp of 30, I decided I was ready for a “room of my own” before fate or family tied me to a life of compromising on couch color. With two months to go until my birthday, I decided to embark on a year of self-discovery and cooking for one.
Sure, I had done my homework on the pluses and minuses of single life. Studies show that living alone can potentially lead to a shorter lifespan and poor eating habits. But weren’t all those TV depictions of single women who overeat in bathrobes while bathed in light from their open fridge just a cliché?
I quit a long-term job and moved into my sparkly new studio on the same day. I was terrified of starting at a new company but eager to take on new challenges. Plus, after five years of writing my ass off every morning, I had a literary agent and an almost-complete book manuscript. And while my last couple of relationships had ended badly, I was excited about a close friend who was becoming something more.
As I began to pack up my belongings, I let myself soak up the last month of my 20s. I was living in the age of Beyoncé, and I was feeling myself.
A Wake-Up Call <img src="http://greatist.com/sites/default/files/styles/article_main/public/living-alone.jpg?itok=NoUayEmf" alt="Woman Looking Out Window" cla…