Gentleman callers come and gentleman callers go. Mostly, they go—and I don't kiss and tell.
Well-meaning friends assume I long to be in a relationship and they try to set me up with men they think I'd get along with. Sometimes the candidates are good friends of my friends, sometimes they're veritable strangers that my friends strike up cunning conversations with while answering a casting call or waiting in line at their polling place. This is when you realize how little the people close to you actually know you.
Indeed, it's true that I am not currently in any legally binding commitment to another person. A woman of a certain age, I live alone and I don't do any online dating. Honestly, bouts of celibacy don't concern me. (Should they?) I wear mismatched flannel pajamas and my carpets are stained with cat barf. Oh, did I mention I have cats? I eat most meals on the couch in front of network TV. Sometimes I open a $30 bottle of wine for dinner even though there's usually no one to share it with. I watch Britcoms on Saturday night.
My secret shame is not that my friends think I'm a sad-sack lonely heart, but rather that I'm really happy with the way things are. I like to think I'm only performing a cliché and that in a parallel world my real life is being lived by a trapeze artist. I say, let her do the work.
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