When I moved to Chicago to start law school it was the first time that I’d ever lived alone. Sure, when I spent my summers in Dallas at my parent’s 2 bedroom condo I was alone for a few days at a time, but eventually Dad would have to go to the office and he’d be in for a day or two before going back home. So when I moved to Chicago it was the first time I’d lived without family or roommates, much less the five roommates I’d lived with in New Orleans. I was really and truly on my own, with a 600 square foot studio on the 22nd floor of a high rise smack in the middle of downtown. I was, literally, living the big city life. All by myself.
My fear about the repercussions of living alone began after I talked to a friend who had a real friend in New York City who couldn’t get rid of a strange odor for weeks on end only to discover it was the dead, decomposing next door neighbor. I know! I know! Only an urban legend you say. Well, perhaps to you it is still an urban legend because really a story that starts with “Well, see, this girl, who I don’t know, I just read her blog, anyway, her friend had a friend, and HE ACTUALLY HAD A DECOMPOSING NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR” doesn’t really qualify as “convincing” but for me- who has a much stronger connection to said person in NYC (whose name I do not know but lets be real here, it is still fairly convincing) who actually had the decomposing neighbor, well, my fear became real.
The fear that I’d do something really dumb and then have to crawl, over the course of days to the front door only to be stymied by the lock so I’d croak inches from freedom and help. I had images of my mummified body being found months later, with neighbors shaking their heads muttering “I knew something was going on in there….” or my doorman becoming concerned I didn’t pick up a package and coming in and finding me with the bugs and creepy crawlies using my body as their personal condominium. You might scoff and laugh, but I have a track record of doing really dumb things. See also: the time I woke up on my kitchen floor after knocking myself out on the corner of a kitchen cabinet as I unloaded the dishwasher. See also: the time I impaled myself on broken Pyrex.
My fear really was founded in reality y’all.
So, soon after moving into my fancy new studio I sent my parents a set of keys and gave the doorman explicit instructions that if they called and demanded he check on me, he had to listen. After all, a drippy dead body does nothing for property value. I then gave my parents instructions that if they didn’t hear from me for two days- unreturned phone calls, emails, texts, what have you, they had to call my doorman to come and make sure I was still breathing.
I’m happy to report I made it through 4+ years of living alone without ever needing a well-being check. A few times my Mom came *thisclose* to telling the doorman to bust in on me, but this was always during finals when I was busy wearing the same outfit for a week straight and nodding off into my casebooks, so she cut me some slack and gave me an extra few hours to respond. I always did. My point being people: you can never be too sure. And if you smell something weird coming from your neighbor’s house, you should definitely call someone to see whats up. Mummified bodies are a real pain to deal with. Or at least they always are on CSI. Which might have been the ‘friend’ my friend was telling me about.
Whatever. It could happen.
