Be Careful What You Wish For

I get up in the morning. Actually, I lie in bed for half an hour after I wake, snuggling under the covers, my toes toasty, my nose freezing. I pet Rudi and get his take on his evening's activities. Then I slide out from under the covers and, grabbing my robe, pad to the computer room to check my mail, answer the important ones, pull my financial transactions into Quicken and, if it's early enough, listen to the day's editions of Writer's Almanac and Composer's Datebook. Then I shower, do my hair, dress, water the flowers, feed Rudi, check the litterbox, and fix my breakfast.

It can be three hours from when I first wake up until I walk out the door. But it doesn't matter, because I live alone. Nobody's depending on me for anything. If I want to lie in bed for 15 minutes repeatedly whistling Stars and Stripes Forever, nobody cares!

The old beau and I spoke for an hour-and-a-half last night, posing and answering questions, discussing the possible negotiations and acquiescences that would accompany our proposed resumption of dating. (Geez, isn't it so much simpler when you're in your teens or twenties?!)

And after I hang up the phone, I think to myself — I'm lonely, but it may be far easier to just live alone than try to set up a cohabitation experience again.

I think I want one more relationship, but if I find it, I want it to last for the rest of my life. I'm sick of this "dating" nonsense.

Was I born 200 years too late? Am I more suited to an era of arranged marriages and stay-at-home wives?