Back in my days as a lad, nobody walked with heads down. Folks acknowledged each other, enjoyed the scenery, and were aware of surroundings. Nowadays, most people walk, while glaring at their phones.
They bump into people, things, and it’s funny, but tragic. Staring at a mobile makes me quite dizzy. In the grand tradition of being single, I succumbed to dating apps. Even this bookworm-extraordinaire had a Tinder account.
Tired of rejection, but mostly bored with the same faces, I took a bold step for spinsters everywhere. I deleted the Tinder application, along with Grinder. On that park bench in Harlem, overlooking ducks, I was officially off the Tinder/Grinder market. In fact, I was dating myself. I was such a cheap date, too.
There were romantic outings to my favorite used bookshop, dinners at the Polish diner, and romantic rendezvous by the fireplace, on my computer, naturally. Weekends were spent huddled in intimate coffee shops, reveling in the sweet scent of Oregon based coffee.
Opportunities to date actual guys arose. However, I really enjoyed my own company. I didn’t want anyone interfering in my introverted happiness. Then, I ended up in my therapist’s office.
“I don’t want a husband, a boyfriend, or a relationship, I just love my alone time.” Thinking my dear shrink would call me out for living a depressed life, I was applauded. Feeling validated, I headed to the used bookshop to celebrate.
Standing in line, I smiled and thought to myself, “look, at me! I’m independent. I don’t need a fella to fulfill life’s emptiness. I have my imagination and artistry to fill in any empty void.
Venturing toward the cash register, I placed my books down. Staring up, he stood, triumphantly. Blue eyes, a cardigan, and messy brown hair, I met the cutest bookworm in New York.
“Wow, you found A Clockwork Orange, used. Now, that’s a steal. You never see that these days,” he said, winking. Eyes wide with literary lust, I stumbled on words. He loaded the bag with books and extra bookmarks. He wished me a happy evening.
Stepping into a freezing East Village sidewalk, I was dazed. “I want to be a spinster. If a cute bookworm like him did come around, I’d have to say, the hell with spinsterhood.”
Instead of re-uploading dating apps and seeking a man with a large book collection, I took myself on a date, Indian food (to be exact). If one can’t find a man to warm you up in the late fall, curry is a most appropriate substitute.