Tonight there is a full moon rising over Topanga Canyon. It’s the same moon that Tennyson was looking at when he said that it was a “ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy sea.” I watch it from my livingroom couch where I am grading student essays and listening to Acoustic Cafe – my favorite program from my home NPR station. The fact that I am listening to it just as if I were driving the Virginia roads, pointed home through wintering trees, still amazes me. Technology.
Tonight I am alone. I was alone last night. But both these nights are just part of who I am now. I have left behind a desperate need to not be single. Elizabeth McCracken writes in her memoir, An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, that before she met her husband she was a spinster, not single, because that would imply that she was trying not to be, but a confirmed spinster with her own community and life.
I love that. Love that. Being single takes energy. Spinsterhood just IS. Me, in the world. As I want it.
So, farewell OK Cupid. You are full of meaningless encounters with men who date as an activity. That is of so little interest to me that I am bored just thinking about your hideous pink pseudo-alchemy icon. Or, as one of my favorite actor friends put something today: “it makes me want to throw up on my own face.”
Recent spinster recipes:
Creamy Polenta with spring onions, fresh tomatoes, and smoked gouda
Green Thai Curry
Curried Squash and Tofu