Five years of marriage had made me itchy for all those things: itchy for men, and itchy for solitude. Itchy for sex and itchy for the life of a recluse. I knew my itches were contradictory—and that made things even worse. I knew my itches were un-American—and that made things still worse. It is heresy in America to embrace any way of life except as half of a couple. Solitude is un-American. It may be condoned in a man—especially if he is a ‘glamorous bachelor’ who ‘dates starlets’ during a brief interval between marriages. But a woman is always presumed to be alone as a result of abandonment, not choice.