Illustration by Mark H. Adams

I hate to admit it, but I enjoy being single.

Honest. I do.

People have a hard time believing me when I say that. My married friends think I’m secretly consumed with jealousy–who wouldn’t be, in the presence of all that domestic bliss? Sure, I may put on a happy face when they have me over for dinner, but in their minds, as soon as I get home I curl up on the sofa with a bag of Cheetos and weep slow, bitter tears, tormented by visions of green suburban lawns and Pottery Barn slipcovered furniture (and the fact that I’m not gettin’ any).

My single friends, meanwhile, think I’m just as lonely as they are.

Actually, until very recently, they all would have been right. And even now I have occasional doubts. No one second-guesses my love life–or lack thereof–more than I do. Am I just kidding myself? Am I being too selective? Am I too deeply in love with myself to love anyone else? Will I re-read this article in 40 years–when I’m an old man living alone in a run-down house with six dozen cats–and rip the magazine to shreds?

At various times in my adult life, the answer to each of those questions would have been yes. But right now, at this particular moment, I’m content where I am. I didn’t come here by choice, and I don’t plan to stay too long, but while I’m here I might as well take in the scenery.

Certain things about being single definitely suck–singles bars, for instanc