I love the idea of being a recluse. A Boo Radley of sorts, minus the saving neighborhood children. Though I suppose I could save neighborhood children provided they weren’t terribly annoying and stayed off of my lawn. The neighborhood children I currently have are not annoying, though I am convinced that they are vampires. During the summer, they always came out after 9pm. They would bike up and down the sidewalk and did whatever else it is that little children do for fun until after 10pm. If they are vampires, then they definitely wouldn’t need me to save them because vampires are strong. [And sparkly!]
I think it would be fun to be a recluse. But it would probably only be fun if you were famous. If you’re famous and a recluse, like the writer in Stranger than Fiction, then people are intrigued by you and think you’re eccentric. If you’re not famous, then it just takes a few weeks for the smell of your decomposing body to alert the neighbors. I don’t think anyone wants that really. Though if your neighbors are vampires, like mine, then they would probably smell you really early on before you got too gross.
Unfortunately, I can’t be a true recluse because I got married. That’s kind of a big no-no for recluse membership. They will throw you right out for that sort of thing. So, thanks to Mr. W, the most I can ever aspire to be is a pseudo-recluse. A mini-recluse. A baby recluset.