There are several books on the market these days promising to help you find yourself a man and settle down. You've seen, or at least heard of them, right? Find A Husband After 35 (Using What I Learned at Harvard Business School), Become Your Own Matchmaker, The Rules, Why Men Love Bitches, et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum. These books prey on the weak, as most everything does these days, and the weak willingly buy into it, desperately hoping that this will be the charm they have been searching for that will somehow allow them to acquire that table scrap of happiness in an otherwise dreary existence. That table scrap of happiness usually translates into finding that perfect significant other to share this existence with. That special someone that will make one feel complete. This is a mistake, if you ask me, to think that it's up to some separate entity to make a person complete, but then again, I'm probably not the best person to ask, since I prefer a life less populated.
I, personally, don't ever have to worry about staying single. It is definitely in the
stars for me. My eccentricities make it so. I used to think that some
fetching lad was going to be awed and charmed by my special brand of
quirkiness to the point where they'd show up in the vacant lot next to
my apartment building late at night, serenade me, rush me off to the
Justice of the Peace, then whisk me off to Niagara Falls for a vintage
style honeymoon. Instead they regard me with fear and trepidation when I
start rattling off the latest statistics about MRSA virus outbreaks or
obscure trivia about Rabies success stories. It also doesn't seem to
help that I have completely unrealistic expectations about who should be
interested in me, seeing as how I'm basically a senescent dreamer in the
vein of Blanche DuBois, yet I imagine that swains such as Johnny Depp
and Jeremy Scahill should be fighting for my hand, delighted to put up
with each new peccadillo I can conjure up for them. Finally one day I
realized there was no need to feel desperate that Mr. Right hadn't come
along. Somewhere along the line I figured out that I only thought I
needed this dashing stranger to save the day, when all I really needed
was to hold up a glass to myself and see me for who I really was. A
stubborn, immature, harpy not willing to compromise my super-liberated
lifestyle with the next Okie lummox who happened to hold the door open
for me. Only then did I discover that a truly interesting life was about to begin.
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