Number 7s of the World, I am With You.

I spent a lot of time alone. More than most people, I suspect. By “alone,” I just mean not actively engaged with anybody else. Martha and I, for example, are often alone together. We may be in the same house, but regularly go hours at a stretch without interacting. When I am on the road, as I am now, I sometimes go a couple of days without speaking to anybody else at all, aside from dealing with the little exchanges we all have with waiters or drivers or hotel clerks. I am almost never lonely.

That lack of loneliness, I suspect, has to do with the abundant love I am lucky enough to have in my life. Human companionship is always at hand if I want it, even if I generally do not. I don’t mean to suggest that I’m misanthropic in any way, only that I prefer to love most people – and I do love people – from a distance.

The evening primrose. Photo by Getty Images.

That preference for solitude can feel a bit like a curse. Not because I’m lonely, as I said, but because I sometimes have real envy for those people for whom a stranger is just a friend they have yet to meet. People on planes, for example, who happily engage with their row mates over pictures of grandchildren and the sharing of vacation plans. Whenever somebody on a plane makes conversation with me, my internal monologue is always reciting some version of, “Please stop talking.”

Maybe I’ve just never had that Main Character Syndrome which assumes others are as delighted with their company as they seem to be with their own. If anything, I have Number 7 on the Call Sheet Syndrome, which I just made up.

In show biz, the “call sheet” is the list production issues every day that tells the actors whether they are needed for the day. The lower the number, the more prominent your role. Number 7 has always been my preferred number. In the thing, for sure, but definitely not the star. Barely star adjacent.

Number 7s like me neither seek the spotlight nor shy away from it when it shines on us. Just not too long, please. Most writers, I suspect, are something like me. Comedians, too, if you can believe it. An hour a day of the spotlight is plenty for us. Less, if we can get away with it.

The envy I used to feel for those with lower numbers on the call sheet was rooted in my own incorrect ideas about who I am. As a younger person, I thought I wanted something I did not. The attention of strangers. Perhaps even their adulation. I mean, how does one become an actor without at least being open to the profession’s so-called perks. Maybe I did want those things, but they arose from a psychological problem rather than any inherent personality trait.

When I first got such attention, I found I disliked it because it wasn’t based in anything. Somebody sees you on TV, maybe, and they develop an intimacy with you that you have no way of developing with them. That’s nobody’s fault, of course, it’s the nature of the medium, but those one-sided relationships can be confusing for those on the receiving end. Sometimes that confusion engenders resentment directed at those giving the attention; sometimes it engenders resentment at one’s self. Problems, as they say, ensue.

Solitude has its own problems. I am often tempted to withdraw nearly entirely, but withdrawal is its own form of solecism. In removing oneself, it is possible to place oneself above others rather than apart from others. The wallflower may mistakenly come to believe they are better than those on the dance floor. Seeking the shade is no better or worse than seeking the sun. Fewer flowers may bloom in the darkness, but some do.

A call sheet. In this example, I am Olivia Sandoval as “Sonja.”

One can also become too familiar with one’s own companionship. Though addictions of various types often befall those who seek the limelight, solitude can become its own addiction. Number 7s like me may find ourselves tumbling further down the call sheet until we fall right off. Stay away too long and we may lose the ability to return.

Of late, Martha has been saying that she’s feeling more introverted. She used to love socializing, which often provoked fights between us because I always wanted to stay in when she wanted to go out. When we were out, I always wanted to leave when she wanted to stay. Now, though, she’s moved more in my direction, preferring to spend her time digging in the garden dirt instead of swigging champagne.

Also of late: though I’ve spent this piece explaining my contentment at being alone, I find that I’ve been moving ever-so-slightly towards greater extroversion. While I still don’t generally seek out much human contact, I’ve found that I take greater pleasure in the interactions that I do have. How to explain that: I suppose I am more comfortable in my own skin now, and so the uncomfortableness I used to (and sometimes still do) feel has somewhat dissipated. Part of it is making the choice to feel worthy of another’s attention. And it is a choice, though one that’s often difficult for me to make, which is the flip side of the psychological problem I mentioned earlier. One seeks attention because one feels unworthy of it. One seeks solitude for the same reason.

It's uncomfortable being human. That discomfort may be humanity’s most distinctive characteristic. Are we the only species that dislikes itself? Probably. That quality of feeling ill-at-ease has proven to be a powerful agent for innovation but it makes a lousy companion. To say that I’m most own best friend would be an overstatement, but I am my own most dependable travel buddy. My most responsive critic. The first and last voices I hear each day. No, though I am most often alone, I am almost never lonely. There’s too much to think about and too much to do for that indulgence.