So here’s my confession: I have no great love story to share, and likely never will. Call me a cynic (and I’m sure you're doing just that, or will be by the end of this post) but I’m not a big believer in romantic love (also known as “limerence”). Instead, I’m convinced it’s nothing more than a big mash-up of naturally occurring chemicals in the brain that, for the vast majority of people, wears off after about three years.

But none of this is to say I haven’t loved and been well (and badly) loved in return. I have. I was married for 16 years, many of them really not bad at all. I have been so deeply, thoroughly distracted “in love” that I’ve left my car at the curb in front of my house, door wide open and engine running, for hours without realizing it. I have sat on rooftops at dawn, breathless with desire and possibility. I’ve sat on windowsills four stories up and contemplated pushing off into space, and I’ve sat in emergency rooms, trying to convince a doctor that my lover needed to be placed on a three-day psychiatric hold. In short, I have cared very deeply for more than my share of men and women and I consider myself lucky for the experience.

These days, I have no interest in love, or romance. Nothing interests me about the awkwardness of the beginning, nor tempts me to try to forge some incandescent connection with another human being. The whole idea seems tedious and tiring. I suppose I could if I felt so inclined; at 44 I am (so I’m told) still quite an attractive woman. (I used to be a genuine beauty and have left that notion behind as well, which is more of a relief than I can express, and another post altogether.) The simple fact is I couldn’t possibly care less at this stage in my life, much to the consternation of my friends and family, who desperately want to see me paired up, as they are.

Here’s the thing though: I love my life. I truly, genuinely love it. I get to do whatever I want to do, whenever I want to do it. I can eat crackers in bed without the slightest inkling of guilt. I always get to pick the movie, the entrée, and I always get the side of the bed nearest the reading lamp. I turn the heat up when I’m cold and open windows when I’m hot. I eat ice cream for dinner and don’t worry about the fat content or whether I’ll gain five stubborn pounds. I rarely shave my legs, never have to bother landscaping my pubes, and if I get my eyebrows dyed, I’m doing it because I want to and not in any effort to “keep myself up” or risk being dumped.

I adore the company I keep—my own and that of my friends and children. I’m blessed with an acerbic, witty, brilliant, funny, talented, eclectic and loving circle. I enjoy the work I do and it pays me handsomely, and I get to keep (or spend) all of that money on whatever I choose.

No wrangling, no comprise, no inevitable disappointment. No recriminations, no spats, no socks on the floor other than mine. This, my friends, is true bliss.

So there’s my love story for you. It’s a solo act, and delightful.