I'm finally reading Patricia Cornwell's Portrait of a Killer (Jack the Ripper Case Closed). So after last night's bangers and mash (and tonight's too), it's a London Pub weekend for sure.

I was thinking last night that having all this time on my own has changed my expectations of other people, in terms of contributing to my happiness. I definitely felt validated by socializing with my friends before, I felt accepted based upon how much of my time was being pursued, or how much interaction I had with certain people. Now I feel like Tom Hanks in that deserted island movie in which his most important relationship was with a volley ball for four years. I make my own entertainment, and I am my own sanctuary. When I am around another person, I'm always wondering when I can be alone again, so I can really be at peace.

Frankly, these days I feel like I could try to see more people, but to what end? Hearing about their lives? Giving them the same advice I always do? Honestly, that's what e-mail is for. And yet I don't feel like a crotchety recluse, I just don't know what to do with another person's presence. What are they there for, I wonder.

I hope this doesn't sound sour grapes-ish. I think I'm just accustomed to my new way of living. This is pretty common, I would think. I don't know the psychological term for this state of mind--the acceptance, and even preference for what was once considered a punishment, or unfortunate circumstance.

I realize it might sound insular, but I feel that this time in my life has made less likely to cling, less reliant in unhelpful ways on other humans, less inclined to put the burden of my joy on another soul. I love that being alone in this apartment, I can just pray anytime I want, right out loud. I'm the best version of myself when I'm all alone.

But sometimes I worry that I won't ever feel the need for having another soul in close physical proximity again. Is this the beginning of spinsterhood?