The perils of spinsterhood

I am getting the hang of it. I really am. I am not disturbed to wake up alone to an empty apartment, to make coffee for myself, to read the paper in a heaven-sent silence, to hop around to music that I please to choose, even if it's, god forbid, the Prince or Fatboy Slim. I adore working on my own hours, getting to the office in the afternoon and staying until everyone sane is asleep. I enjoy being somewhat secluded. I have been doing this for quite awhile, enjoying every minute of it.
Then my mother, the family therapist, who is frighteningly *always* right, comes to visit. Quite observant, she is. She nods to my daily routine, as if to say "yup, I know what's going on here...". I am suspicious, but too busy trying to provide her with a good time in the foreign land that became her daughter's home. A few days after she departs, she writes me this pensive email, tying the moments from her youth before she met my dad to my present, which is, for the record, miles and kilometers away from any of her realities. She shares her concern about my comfort with being alone. "You should seek out male company" she concludes, matter of factly, but nonetheless, repeatedly.
Most mothers urge their children to be prudent. Reserved, judicious, good mannered. Not my mother. "Don't worry what anyone will think. Go out and have some fun. Live a little!" is my mother's, the family therapist's, who is frighteningly always right, heartfelt advice.
It threw me somewhat off base. For the first time I realized I may meet a different fate than I envisioned since I was a kid. And that it wouldn't be the end of the world if I did. In fact, it would be quite alright. Even more, it would be quite a tempting scenario. I thought I arrived at a point of perfect peace and harmony with myself.
Few nights ago I had a dream. I believe she is entirely to blame. I dreamt I was in my bed, just like I was, in the same position I was. I dreamt I awoke of a sudden chest pain. I could not breathe and I could not move. The cell phone was just inches out of reach. I couldn't get to it. I tried to call out my housemate's name, but my voice wasn't strong enough. I knew I was having a heart attack. "If only I had a mate," I thought, "I would not have to be found dead in three days rotting away, reeking to high heavens, decomposing into green and yellow heaps of decaying flesh, by roommates who are utterly innocent, creeping them out and certainly scarring them for the rest of their lives. I would have someone to call my parents and arrange a funeral in decency. Crap, this just stinks. This ain't fair and I can't do didley squat about it."
As I think this, I lie in my bed, realizing I'm breathing OK. Then I find out the chest pain is gone. It takes an eternity to settle the question whether I am alive or dead. I try my voice. It is there. Alive. Phew. I have no idea when I woke up, but I obviously did. What's one to do. I got up, poured myself a glass of merlot. I don't really like it, but it's for free, leftover from the seminar at work. I like that thought. One teensy bit of the real world. I browse through a2k until I'm bleary-eyed. I climb back to bed, ever so cautiously. I put the cell phone under my pillow, just in case. I leave the door crack open. Thinking happy thoughts: swimming in a summer lake, running across a corn field with Basha. Thump, thump. The heart' fine. I'll live at least until the morning. Then I can crawl to the living room. They would find me there the same evening. I wouldn't look that awful by then. And heck, if I'm lucky, I may even be fine for a few more weeks, months, years even. My eyelids get heavier. Damn the mothers who are frighteningly always right!