My Inner Cat Lady

It may seem an odd thing to confess from an admitted cat non-enthusiast, but I have recently become aware of a growing tendency to embrace my inner cat lady. While the melancholy Hamlet queried, "To be, or not to be..." I find myself reflecting upon this spinster's dilemma: who or what will keep me company as my years increase. The cliche notion is for a woman in my station, a female bachelor, if- you- will, to begin the collecting of small furry creatures to fill a void left by the afore mentioned single status. (By the by when will someone introduce an equivalent female word to bachelor that doesn't connote desperation and shame? And don't try to swindle me with the suggestion of bachelorette. Seriously.) My philosophical quandary, while not of Hamlet's soulful proportions, is such that my mind battles between rejecting all notions of collecting any animals around me as surrogate children and family and embracing my self-proclaimed eccentricity and becoming the proud owner of a reptile room. But who will feed the little darlings their squirming victims? Knowing my incapacity to kill a spider crawling across my floor I woefully admit: not me. And so I must ask myself of my future, if I dare: to own or not to own. The only certainty my path holds is that I will never be an actual cat lady.