on being single...

Inside of me, I am at ease being single, even if life isn’t all Haa Haa Hee Hee. There are no dire thoughts that I’ll die lonely and the body will lie undiscovered and the cadaver be eaten by the dog (Doberman, according to the irrepressible Bridget Jones). For one, I do have friends who I am sure will wonder when they stop getting panicked phone calls at midnight. Panicked, for the tap leaks, or I am stranded at the airport-which is as good a reason as any to have a Man around. For another, my dog loves me, and he won't make a feast of my remains. There is no terror either ,that the biological clock is ticking for reasons best left unsaid, nor the dread that we live in a world without Men. Let me rectify that one, there are Men(if you can call them that), but no Good Men-for that in itself is an oxymoron—and if I do hear sounds of protests from the male of the species, come forward mate, and debate. In the open. Like a Man.
I will leave the issue of the paucity of remotely appropriate male species aside-it will take forever, and I for one, belong to the school of thought that there is an equal scarcity of Good Women, and I am the last of them. So there.
As I had started saying, before I wandered astray, as I am wont to, I am at ease with Singledom within me, if only it were not for the outside world, which has taken it upon themselves to treat the single status as a disease of sorts. An infectious one. As though if one got too near their dearly beloved daughters it would catch and condemn the poor darlings from a similar fate. I tried to tell them that marital bliss is not always that, and does mean washing smelly socks and putting up with wet toilet seats and possessive mother-in-laws, but to no avail. I mentioned disease, because suddenly the whole world-your aunt, friend, neighbour, doctor, dhobi—want to cure and rectify-and dangle and parade these Men before you. Twice married, and counting. I couldn’t surely be single out of choice, they exclaim in horror, as I decline graciously. Why refuse holy matrimony, so what if the prospective bridegroom was suspected of axe murder. Ok, so I exaggerate, but I do draw the line at waking up, everyday of my life-or as long as the marriage lasts-with someone who lacks the IQ of even my dog (the dog understands-and obeys me), or stink like yesterday’s fish. So, please all you matchmakers out there-leave the Manhunt to me. Even worse are friends-though I baulk to use the word for this one-who imagine that I am on the prowl, (“a cat in heat” they called a sweet friend of mine, recently widowed, and still in mourning) and will lunge at their husbands. There is no humour here, my friend, this one saddens, sickens me. To imagine I would stoop so low, to betray a friend-for the sake of man. No. No way. No man is worth it. No man. And this one is for all you men out there too. I am single-I don’t know your command over the language, but last I looked in the dictionary, it didn’t translate to “desperate, looking for sex.” Truly, look it up, if you don’t believe me.