I hadn’t heard from my friend Judy, a sculptor, for weeks. She was at one of those artist colonies in the woods, a sort of full-scholarship sleepaway camp for grown-ups where composers, poets and visual artists work alone in their tiny cabins all day. Still, it was unusual for her not to respond to my various e-mail rants about deer tearing up the garden and unreliable contractors, and I was starting to worry. Judy happens to be single, childless and in her 40s. Suddenly, I pictured her locked in her lonely room conjuring fantasies in which the man of her dreams appears on one of the wooded paths (poof!) with two bright-faced kids in tow.
Then an e-mail from her flashed across my screen: “You can stop looking. I have found the meaning of life.” Apparently, “poor Judy” had simply been too blissed-out to check in. No cooking, no cleaning, no distractions from the work she loves, plus a group of talented pals to drink and schmooze with after hours. A man? The pitter-patter of little feet? She wasn’t missing it.