I don’t have to answer to anyone about how I spend my time, my money or my Saturday evenings. I don’t have to ask anyone if it’s okay if I go out with the girls. I don’t have to consult anyone about how I’m raising my daughter. My boyfriend is a great guy, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything, but I’m good with not being married to him.
So with that in mind, I sometimes peruse books about being single in an effort to learn something new about this life I’ve chosen — or that chose me. Not those singlehood books about how to muddle through until you find a man and your life can begin. I’m talking about books that illuminate the art of singleness, written by people who know you can’t hang around waiting for marriage to give you permission to begin your life.
So last week I was on Amazon, looking at books about being a single woman of a certain age. I found one I liked and clicked the checkout button, already anticipating learning something new from the author.
Amazon took that opportunity to ask me a question that completely deflated all my idealistic musings about singleness:
“Would you like to add this book to your wedding registry?”
No, Amazon. No, I would not.
Many years ago, in a previous life, I was the pastor’s daughter in a very large church, and the old ladies there were quite concerned that I was in my thirties and had not yet managed to snag a man. They were forever patting me on the arm and saying things like “Don’t you worry, honey — you’ll meet the right one someday.” Or they’d poke me in the ribs at weddings and cackle, “You’re next, honey!” I’ve often wondered if maybe I should have poked THEM in the ribs at funerals and said the same thing.
I’m pretty sure Amazon is run by those ladies.