Chloe Moss, 22, is a fashion blogger and freelance writer who graduated with an English Literature degree from King’s College London in July. In her fifth ‘Funemployed’ column she discusses the liberating (literally) feeling of living all by her self…
As I said last week, I recently went from living with my sister to living entirely alone. As such, my journey to adulthood has taken an interesting turn in that I now have to keep myself alive. This means accepting harsh realities like checking use-by dates before eating chicken, not drinking an entire bottle of wine (or if I do, putting myself to bed), and not having an audience for my aggressive (but entirely hilarious) commentary to Made In Chelsea. I thought, since nobody asked, I would provide you all with an update as to how I’m faring with my new situation.
Off the bat, there are a lot of pros that mostly involve my personal comfort. Living alone has got me revelling in my desire to feel free. When I had a flatmate I restricted myself to simply taking off my bra the minute I got in the door at night as a means of celebrating my domestic liberty. But now it’s no holds barred nudity. Not nudity in the “Girls of the Playboy Mansion” way, because this isn’t that kind of column.
No, more like nudity in the sense of that post-shower feeling where the water was too hot, you shaved your legs and all the twisting to not cut your ankles (and cutting them anyway) has worn you out so you have to literally lie down on the floor in the corridor to recover. That sort of nudity. It’s nice to know that you can do this without disturbing your flatmate, because there’s the risk of your flatmate tripping over your bright red but entirely still carcass, or that they might be freaked out by the sight of a supposedly perfectly healthy girl in her twenties worn out by the simple act of shaving.
Failing that, and I want to assure you that this doesn’t happen too regularly, is something I like to call “Chloe Unzipped”. This is the post-dinner time when I’ve eaten too much and I just sort of unzip my jeans and let my waistband have a little chill time. So there I am, post-9pm, unzipping my jeans because I have over-indulged (usually on couscous because it is deceptive when being measured out). Again, another triumph for personal comfort, and cheers to whoever invented the zip.
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However there are, of course, some serious cons which became obvious fairly early on. Firstly, because I work from home, I have a lot of alone time. And nobody civilised can have “Chloe Unzipped” all the time, otherwise no work would get done (it’s strictly a leisure-time look). So I spend a lot of time sat writing/pretending to write, alone, with my internal monologue become a largely external force. That’s a kind way of saying I talk to myself. It is honestly really hard to only talk to yourself for an entire day, especially if you’re as annoying as me.
Another difficulty, as I said before, is the question of who will care for me when I’m suffering from one of my monumental hangovers. My name is Chloe and I cannot hack. For the duration of my hangover (usually 9pm, but it gets later each time) I need someone to care for me. Someone to buy me a Capri Sun. Someone to make me an extra buttery sesame seed bagel. And not complain when it takes me three hours to eat said bagel. Someone to stroke my hair and tell me I’m still pretty. You know, simple things like that. Now that I live alone I have to do all of these things for myself and it is not the same. Last weekend when I was suffering particularly badly, I had to trick my sister into coming over so that she could make me the magical life-saving bagel.
Overall I think I’m coping quite well with my new situation. I’ve become a nudist who talks to myself but you know, different strokes for different folks. After all this reflection I would like to end on this: it’s important to remember, when you live alone, that just because you can buy and eat an entire family fun size box of Maltesers, it doesn’t always mean that you necessarily should.