As I find myself single and now at 55 years of age, the challenges of the convergence of these two realities is hitting home. There are numerous challenges that arise from such a condition — adjusting recipes to cook for one when all you know is how to cook for Napoleon’s Army on the march to Russia; rationalizing day-drinking when alone (I admit, I have overcome this one with little effort and a huge “Fuck You” to any social stigma that others may place on the habit); adjusting to sleeping through Boxer farts in the middle of the night and waking up to Boxer breath on your face in the morning (all-in-all, this one, on the whole, isn’t really that bad); over-coming the feeling of shame when there are no seats left to eat at the bar and you have to ask for a table for one; and, at times, mastering the art of auto-erotic manipulation (not to be confused with its very specific, and significantly more dangerous, sub-class of activity know as auto-erotic asphyxiation…check Michael Hutchence of INXS or David Carradine of Kill Bill fame for details). These challenges can de daunting to be sure. However, to me, the most daunting challenge of single life is mastery of folding a fitted sheet by oneself. This mere activity has been the bane of many a single. But, in the same vein, once one picks the lock of the secret and succeeds in producing a semblance of orderly folded material, as opposed to a balled mass, one understands and accepts that any other challenge can be met.
