I have a friend I met when I was 13 years old.  Though we live hundreds of miles from each other now, and have for 25 years, we see each other once a year and pick up where we left off.  I know where she will want to go.  She knows what I’ll want to talk about.  We know where we will eat, and I know she will need a nap in the mid-afternoon.  I cannot imaging her not being on Earth with me even though we share only a few hours each year in each other’s presence.  For goodness sakes, we only “friended” each other on Facebook about a year ago.

I don’t have close friends.  I am a serial friend.  One who will grow close to people for a time, but then move away as life and interests wane or intervene.  Most of my friends are work-friends. I am no longer a church-goer as I find the guilt of not having enough time to make a reasonable contribution to the community too unacceptable to allow me to take what they offer.  I belong to few groups beyond those professional and thus impersonal.  I feel no compulsion to gather for social activities just for the sake of socialization.  I would do anything in the world for you if you were in need, but I’m told that I don’t ask nearly enough of others around me.

I say that as I grow older I’m becoming something of a big, fluffy (and at times cranky) cat.  One which will purr, observe, chase, and lay quietly.  One who when disturbed sometimes lashes out thus ensuring that a healthy distance is kept.  I don’t really mind this.  The crankiness is fading as peri-menopause wreaks its final havocs with my hormones and metabolism.

But I do wonder what I will do as I grow old?  With no one in particular to care for or about?  With child and grandchildren lost in their own lives?  Will I find then that this solitude is still to my liking?