T A B L E++T A L K

Admitted soccer moms fret over thier kids' achievement in sports. Feel similar? Join the discussion in the Mothers area of Table Talk

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R E C E N T L Y

Mulatto millennium
By Danzy Senna
When being "mixed" is cool
(07/24/98)

Second Thoughts
By Sallie Tisdale
Forget quality -- it's quantity time that matters
(07/23/98)

The face of Zorro
By Luis Valdez
For 80 years, Zorro has been the shining star of a mythical California, set in a time and place that never existed. In "The Mask of Zorro," he still is
(07/22/98)

Zorro vs. Tarzana
By Stephen Talbot
How the masked avenger taught a white kid from the suburbs that California's past -- and its present -- was older, darker and more soulful than he had ever dreamed
(07/22/98)

Drama Queens
Bad trips: The road to hell is paved with good intentions, pickle-flecked vomit and the MLA convention
(07/21/98)

BROWSE THE MOTHERS WHO THINK FEATURE ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

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A SINGLE WOMAN CHOOSES A LIFE OF SOLITUDE IN THE LAND OF WE.

BY CAROLINE KNAPP | Nine forty-five p.m. I am standing in my kitchen preparing my very favorite meal, a zesty blend of wheat flakes, Muslix and raisins that comforts me deeply. It is a Thursday, which means that "ER" is on in 15 minutes, and it is mid-May -- sweeps month -- which means that I am filled with anticipation: yes, a new episode. I feel serene. I am wearing torn leggings, a T-shirt, a bathrobe. The dog is in the living room, curled contentedly (and wordlessly) on the sofa; the phone machine is blinking with several messages, which I've dutifully screened and have no intention of answering until tomorrow. And a thought comes to me, a simple statement of fact that arrives in a fully formed sentence. I hear the words: I am the Merry Recluse.

This, I must say, is a magical, transformative moment; it represents a kaleidoscopic shift of sorts, the kind of sudden internal restructuring that occurs when an established set of facts about the self seems to spontaneously shift, presenting itself in a new order, a surprising new light. An old thought becomes a new thought; a prior definition takes on a twist, a new edge, a new meaning.

Listen to it again: I am the Merry Recluse. Doesn't that sound chipper and grand? Had you asked me to sum up my sense of place in the world a day before -- an hour before, 10 minutes before -- I would have offered something very different: I am a single woman, I might have said. Age 38, a bit of a loner. My voice might have had an apologetic edge, as though I were acknowledging the sad and spinsterish associations behind such words, and I might have shrugged a bit sheepishly, as if to say: Ooops, sorry, this is all an accident; I was supposed to be married by now. But in that instant, poised above my bowl of Wheaties, the psychic kaleidoscope turned a notch, the apology blurred, something new shifted into view, something that looked very much (dare I even say it?) like happiness.

Happy and alone, you say? Reclusive and merry? How oxymoronic! Pas possible! Alas, the concept is lost on so many. A friend, recently divorced but involved with someone new, asked me a question over dinner not long ago: "So," she said, her expression concerned, "how does it feel not to be in a relationship?" I tried to ignore her tone, which was vaguely pitying, and pretended to be kidding when I answered by pointing at the dog: "But I am in a relationship," I said. "I have her." She laughed, a rather halfhearted and dismissive laugh, then resumed the line of questioning: Wasn't I lonely? she wanted to know. Didn't I find it hard to be responsible for all the household details -- the cooking, the shopping, the errands and bills? Didn't I worry about the future, about growing old alone, about whether or not I'll find someone?

I sat there and mused for a moment. The questions are difficult to respond to, not because the answers are complex (which they are) but because we live in a culture that puts such a high premium on romantic intimacy, that uses partnership as a measure of mental health and social normalcy. Answer affirmatively (yes, I get lonely; yes, solitude can be very stressful and worrisome), and you sound sorrowful, the slightly pathetic outsider; answer negatively (nope, I'm quite content, thank you very much) and you sound hermetic, incapable of following the accepted path to human happiness, pathologically disengaged somehow. In fact, 25 percent of the adult population lives alone today -- that's almost double the number that lived alone 35 years ago -- and although plenty of us may end up on our own for unhappy reasons (divorce, fear, geography, any number of quirks of fate and timing and circumstance), it seems both simplistic and erroneous to assume that solitude is an inherently sorry state, something you wouldn't choose if you had a better option.

I said as much to my friend. "Sure there are downsides," I said, "but I really like being alone." I ticked off a little list: the freedom to set my own hours, make my own rules, indulge my own tastes; the relief at not having to interact or negotiate or compromise with another human unless I choose to; the little burst of accomplishment I periodically feel at being the architect of my own space, physical and psychic. "It's a choice," I said, "a style I'm comfortable with."

She listened, nodded soberly; I could tell she didn't believe a word.

Exchanges like this wouldn't bug me if they weren't so common. I often walk my dog in the morning with a friend named Wendy who's been in a relationship for the last 19 years and whose social calendar is packed so tight it makes me dizzy: a constant stream of parties and potluck suppers, movie and theater outings, vacations and visitors from out of town. Every Friday she asks me what I'm doing over the weekend and every Friday I demur: "Oh, not much," or, "The usual: just hanging." The truth is, I rarely make weekend plans, at least not social ones. My recipe for bliss on a Friday night consists of a New York Times crossword puzzle and a new episode of "Homicide"; Saturdays and Sundays are oriented around walks in the woods with the dog, human companion in tow some of the time but not always. This doesn't mean I'm a misanthrope: I have a small, carefully cultivated social life -- a handful of treasured friends; a beloved sister; people whose presence and support mean the world to me -- but Wendy can't quite make the distinction between a quiet life and an empty one, and she finds my style unsettling. A look of veiled discomfort comes over her face when I hem and haw about the weekend, as though she envisions 48 hours of disconnection and sadness, so sometimes I make stuff up to placate her: I tell her there are dinner plans, movies scheduled, a shopping trip with a girlfriend, and she always responds with a little heave of maternal relief, which I find mildly patronizing. "Oh, how nice for you!"

Me, I walk along and feel quietly defensive, a recluse in the Land of We.

That's quite the loaded word, "we."

N E X T+P A G E: Do I have a life?