Rhymes with Dromebook

I have been travelling with a laptop that is smaller and lighter than my usual laptop, and it has been driving me slightly crazy. At one point I was tempted to throw it out of the window of a high-rise in Chicago. Aside from the fact that I am still familiarizing myself with its capabilities, one thing that it does not have is Microsoft Word, and that turns out to be a much bigger disadvantage than I imagined. It means I have not been able to type out my thoughts for a whole week.

I have been told that there is an alternative software that I could use, and that there are workarounds, but I haven’t had time yet to figure those out. I intend to, but I might buy a different device first, or I might accidentally drown the darned thing.

Anyway, what I wanted to write about is how I’ve decided to give up online dating. Again. I know, I know. I’ve said this before, but this time I really mean it. I’ve given it a good try. It’s been a few years now of on-and-off attempts to meet someone I could possibly live with or even see on a regular basis. I’ve come close a few times. I’ve met some very nice men, and had some nice dates in some nice places, and I’ve eaten lots of nice lunches. There have been a few men that I’ve dated for a few weeks or months, but today I am single and that is okay.

While I was travelling I picked up a book called Going Solo by Eric Klinenberg, and it is very encouraging. It seems I am part of a growing number of people who happily choose to live alone; 27% of households in Canada and the US, and an astonishing 47% in Sweden.

Living alone works well for me because I like being able to come and go as I please, not having to explain why I’m having another glass of wine, stopping in the middle of nowhere to take a photo, binge-watching TV shows on Netflix, and a million other things that in the past I have had to justify to someone.

Also, I’m afraid that if I seriously want to attract a life partner I should lose ten or twenty pounds, live in one place all the time, wear high heels, and flirt. I’m hopeless at flirting. I sometimes recognize it when I see it, but I really don’t feel inclined to actually practice the art. It makes me feel silly and giggly, and I’ve spent a lifetime trying to be neither of those things. My hair is too short to toss, and my bum is too flat to twerk. (And I just made myself laugh out loud.)

So, since I’m going to be single for ever, I should plan that way. I need to make sure my savings last until I’m 95, sell my high-maintenance house and buy a low-maintenance apartment, and put in bathroom grab bars for when I get frail. Just thinking about those things, though, makes me feel older than I am and more afraid than is necessary. I’m not ready for assisted living, but I’m not as fit as I used to be, either. These days my back hurts if I have to stand for a long time, and walking uphill is a lot more difficult than it should be.

Being me is a lot like that smaller laptop I mentioned. I’m more-or-less as efficient as I could be, but just not quite capable enough for everything I want to do.

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