I am 43 years old, unspoused and unchilded, and share a house with nine cats. (Yes, nine.) Make of this what you will.
I am an omnivore, a city person, and devoutly non-athletic. I love dogs, as long as they belong to other people. I have an inordinate fondness for hilariously ugly shoes.
I like my Martinis dry and my wit dryer. I like my men skinny and my books fat. I take my coffee black, and in stupidly large quantities.
I do not believe there was ever a “simpler, more innocent time.” There was no Golden Age. Get over it. (I recommend deciding that this–right now–is the Golden Age you so long for, and acting accordingly. It works.)
The great tragedy of my life is that I have one of the worst singing voices known to humankind. I’m not a fan of opera, but I occasionally dream that I am onstage in a vast concert hall, singing some great aria before an enraptured audience. In those dreams, I have a great and powerful, yet exquisite, voice. When I sing, I can feel it in my whole body, and the physical sensation that accompanies singing is the most joyous, wonderful, intoxicating thing there is.
Though I have very little in my life to feel sad about, I am always a bit verklempt when I awaken from this particular dream (but the first cup of coffee usually straightens me right out).