Rethinking the Hermit

Remember the old hermit in the cartoons who lived in a run down cabin deep in the woods? With his long beard and bare feet, he eschewed contact with other people, keeping company with only his shot gun and moonshine. People from the outside world would occasionally run across the old coot but would retreat in a hurry when confronted by his surly aversion to hospitality. He was a holdout from the pre-modern world, living off the grid, beyond the reach of telephones and other technology which might link him to others.

You'd rarely think about why he ended up that way. Perhaps he was abused as a child. Maybe it was a life-style preference. Maybe he was just plain crazy.

He was almost always a man. You didn't hear of many women living alone in the woods, unless they were crazy old witches who ate lost children.

Even though his was not a glorified existence to which one would aspire, I've often fantasized about being a hermit. I enjoy my time alone.

It's not that I'm antisocial - ok, yes it is. I like to turn the phone off so it doesn't interrupt whatever I'm doing. I hate to be bothered, especially when the call is from a telemarketer or one of those increasingly annoying charity groups that will just happen to be driving their truck through my neighborhood and want to pick up my castoffs.

But I could never live out in the woods. Too much quiet makes my ears ring. I like the sound of traffic. I need 24 hour access to a supermarket, where my preferred time to shop is 4:30 a.m. - when no one else is there. I require convenient take out food - which I take home and eat alone.

I'd be more of an urban hermit.

Perhaps in the 21st century, most hermits are urban. You might see them out and about, but they don't make eye contact. They close the shades in the middle of the day so they don't have to see you through the window. City hermits may or may not guard their moonshine with a shot gun, but they might have multiple locks on the front door.

I'd only be a mediocre hermit. I don't always yell at visitors, just kids when they throw rocks at my window. I don't brandish a shotgun - just, occasionally, my middle finger. I drink Diet Coke, not moonshine.

Choosing solitude has its risks. I've heard stories about the mummified remains of urban hermits found sitting in reclining chairs, the television still turned on to the channel they were watching years ago when they died. 

No risk of me isolating to that extent. I'd prefer to think I'll die with a little more drama, leaving a vast fortune to my cats, much to the annoyance of my human loved ones, and zealously guarding my stash of Diet Coke with a flick of the finger to the end.