The New York Times recently reported just over half of American women are living alone and liking it. It's a finding other columnists have questioned. The Minneapolis StarTribune's Katherine Kersten thumbed her nose at the data. In fact, she summed up her rebuttal column by saying that marriage is still our most important institution.
     I don't know about that, but I do know I like being married. Today. But talk to me tomorrow. If my husband has the "I can't find my cell phone" crisis as he leaves for work, or flips his shoes against the wall in the foyer when he comes home, I may feel differently.
     I don't know who the people at the Times spoke to, but the single women I know wish they could meet someone. "To linger over the Sunday paper with while we eat croissants and drink coffee," one of my friends told me.
     It's funny: women my age who are single dream of spending all their time with The Right One. Those who are married just want some time to themselves. Maybe even a room to call their own.
     My husband and I read the Sunday papers together. He whips through the parts he likes (sports, editorials and magazine) and I pore over every word of every section, often reading aloud obituaries and book reviews to him. Just as I start on the entertainment section and my second cup of coffee, he starts packing up our workout bags, eager to "get going."
     My friends who are single don't like coming home to an empty house night after night. They'd like to have Someone Special waiting for them at the door. Someone with whom to share their supper. They've forgotten how good they have it, though, with no one to consider but themselves when planning that meal. Or not planning it. Why is an apple and a wedge of cheese a feast for a woman and a "You're not serious" for a man?
     My husband likes a big spread at night. Before we were married, he'd assured me that he knew how to cook chicken. I had pictured him fixing dinner on a regular basis. He'd rush home to roast the bird, maybe even peel potatoes and set the table. I imagined candles and music, too. Alas, his recipe went something like this: "Remove Swanson's frozen chicken dinner from the freezer. Unzip cardboard box. Dump pieces onto metal tray and bake in preheated toaster oven. Serve with potato chips on paper plates."
     Marriage is compromise, Sister Mary Somebody told us in religion class. I'm not sure how she knew that, but my husband and I have followed her advice and worked out a compromise of our own. I cook the chicken and he doesn't.
     Come to think of it, maybe the women the Times interviewed were Sister Mary and her cohorts. They're not married, but they seem to have the best of both worlds-a whole community to come home to and a room of their own. Alleluia.