One evening in early November, sitting down to eat dinner alone, I picked up the Chicago Reader and flipped halfheartedly through the personal ads. I stopped at this one: “Psyche-oriented, sensitive, progressive explorer/artist/shaman . . . seeks conscious, perceptive, emotionally and intellectually strong woman of integrity who knows it’s time to simplify and move on.”
It was so unlike the usual “I love to walk in the rain” ads, that I called the personals line and listened to his phone message. His voice was warm, unpretentious, nervous. To my surprise, I left a message about whatever came into my head: having two teenage daughters, living in the suburbs, being forty-six, traveling to India, being a non-drinking vegetarian, meditating — all undesirable in the singles world. Somewhere in the middle of the message I felt the absurdity of it all and laughed.