Wednesday, July 25, 2012

DJ Spinster

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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