One is the Loveliest Number
In praise of being introverted, antisocial, and enjoying your own company most of all.
Greetings, my gentle fucklings! Today’s NFG nugget isn’t a tip so much as it’s an expression of solidarity for those of us who love being left the fuck alone. If that sounds like your single-serve bag of chips, do scroll on…
One is the Loveliest Number
Generally speaking, I am not someone who “thrives” on “connecting with other people.”
I love that for those of you who build networks and collect new BFFs wherever you go, but it’s not the life for me. I thrive when I have space to think and plan and read and write and ponder—without interruption, and without having to worry about anyone else’s opinions, feelings, needs, and desires for a semi-prolonged period of time.1
Safe to say, being left to my own devices and enjoying some goddamn peace and quiet is my jam. Honestly? Call it seven times out of ten, I’d choose being alone over being with other people.
It’s not that I don’t have friends, a partner, and others in my life whose company I enjoy and appreciate very much—my husband, for example, is my all-time favorite human. But just because I chose to live with him a quarter century ago doesn’t mean I also do not infrequently ask him to “Please go away now.”
Sitting solo on the couch for five hours is a chance to clear my mind, let down my guard, and recharge my social battery. For me, it’s as pleasurable and invigorating as, I don’t know, a family vacay to Disneyland Paris might be for someone else.
Pas aujourd’hui, Satan!
Strangely, despite knowing all of this about myself, for a long time I did not identify as an introvert.
Quite the opposite, actually. I must be an extrovert, I thought. I’m so confident! And, lord, I’m certainly not SHY.2
Indeed, as evidenced by all the strangers I’ve charmed and the bars I’ve danced on over the years, I’m quite good at socializing when I want to be doing it. (Or when I feel I have to be doing it, which is a skill unto itself…)
But recently I Googled “What makes an introvert?” and I must say, I felt seen.
Needs absolute quiet to concentrate? Check.
Takes a lot of time to make decisions? Double check.
Prefers writing over talking? Triple check.
Feels tired after being in a crowd? Check-itty-check, check, check.
Doesn’t like group projects? CHECK AF.
So yeah, it turns out I can cosplay an extrovert well enough, but the older I’ve gotten, the faster my aforementioned social battery seems to die, and I’ve noticed that it requires an ever-longer charge between uses.
And maybe that…I don’t even really want to use it so much?
For a while I was self-conscious about that feeling, particularly when we were coming out of the lockdowns and everyone else was so keen to socialize in big groups. The more, the merrier!
I worried there was something wrong with me because I wasn’t super excited about getting back out there.
Was it a symptom of lingering depression, perhaps even agoraphobic tendencies creeping in? Or could it simply be an unwillingness to return to the days of putting on my party pants and making indiscriminate small talk all night long for the sake of…well, what, exactly?
Especially when the alternative (aka that glorious goddamn peace and quiet I mentioned earlier) is vastly more enjoyable and satisfying for me, most of the time.
Oh look: ‘Tis I, getting too old for this shit!
Lately I’ve been seeing tons of articles written by and for people of a certain age who are finally figuring out they don’t give a flying fuck about many things they considered vitally, nonnegotiably important in their younger years.3
There are the Elder Millennials and Gen-Xers suffering professional burnout so extreme that quitting their dream job feels like the safest choice.
Or the women in their forties and fifties declaring they no longer care about hiding their gray or filling in their crow’s feet. (H/T
, , and , among others.)Not to mention the perennial listicles that count “not having the courage to live authentically” and “caring too much about what other people think” as among the most common regrets of people on their deathbeds.
Of course, it makes perfect sense that getting older is inherently clarifying—after all, every night we fall asleep means one less day we have to wake up and waste on bullshit.
And I don’t know about you, but the sands in my hourglass are almost certainly past the half-way point; I see no reason to squander the remaining grains on anything that doesn’t tickle my pickle.
As a result, I’ve stopped feeling bad or weird or guilty about honoring my newfound introverted nature, especially if it enables me to escape such personal mini-hells as “a cruise ship’s worth of unwashed masses descending on the Acropolis at a single appointed hour.”
I’ll spring for a private guide, thanks!
(Or better yet, take a free nap back at the hotel while the rest of you join the fray.)
But wait, there’s more…
In addition to accepting that my need for alone time is as potent and valid as other people’s need to be surrounded by friends and family—after nearly forty-six years of focused study I’ve come to a less “introverted” and more “flat-out antisocial” conclusion, which is as follows:
I simply do not like most people.
Yup. I said it.
And maybe I’m a judgy bitch with ludicrously high standards, or maybe lots of people kind of suck (perhaps both!)—but either way, the chance of me having a nice evening at a crowded event full of unknown quantities is very low indeed.
When you combine that math with my unapologetic yen for me-time, the choice is clear.
Life is too short, and my social battery is too damn dim.
Go on without me, folks! Have fun!
I’ll be at home.
On the couch.
Alone.
No fucks given, not sorry.
PS: If you liked this post, you’ll love my personal favorite of the No F*cks Given® Guides, You Do You: How to Be Who You Are and Use What You’ve Got to Get What You Want.
No, I do not have children. Why do you ask?
Thank God my college years were largely over before digital cameras and social media entered the chat.
The algorithm, she is all-seeing and all-knowing.
Solitude is the best! Being in a social gathering is exhausting mentally and physically. I have to psych myself up to attend a gathering. The next 2 days after are spent recuperating!
My GOD, do I ever resonate with this post. I've always been an introvert (like, I'd stay home from high school basketball games to write), and though during college and my crazy 20s I went a little nuts and was out all the time, I have totally and completely embraced my introversion in my late 40s. I'll be 50 next year. I'm divorced, and broke up with my long-term boyfriend earlier in the year, and have decided I will never, ever, EVER live with a man again. I crave my solitude and my space and I NEED IT like I need water to live. I'm entering my "no fucks given" phase of my life and I absolutely love it.