Blow me a kiss and as old as I will ever be I will still hear violins. Romance, that thin, sweet glaze that coats memory, mood and imagination remains as light as a giddy notion. Unlike the gale winds of sex and love, romance is a flutter that requires no more effort than a sigh. And nothing — not hearing aids, skin cancer or a knee replacement  — dilutes that.

Romance has nothing to do with age.

That it remains alive and well, even now at age 84, is a testament to how indoctrinated I was from childhood that romantic love was essential to happily ever after. Love and be loved. Simple. And yet, I couldn’t pull it off.

My romantic memories were disappointing. And in the long zigzag course of being divorced, my need to be coupled atrophied. Recognition has to be given to the fact that not having had a lasting loving partnership, I don’t really know and haven’t felt what I’ve missed.

But it is enough because it has to be, enough because I’ve had the immense joy of raising two wonderful children, and enough because in time most everyone who stumbles toward survival after divorce or widowhood eventually trips over the large variety of pleasures and indulgences of being single.

And I am still a romantic. Like many single old women, I enjoy daydreaming. I allow myself to be moved by romantic old songs, movies and novels that make me feel as if I’m wearing silk and sequins. It’s fun. It’s safe.

While we often fail to realize it, we create most of our options. We cook up our ordinary little pleasures and if we are able to season them with a sprinkle of romance, we can transform ordinary into memorable.

Romance lives beyond partnerships. It thrives on whimsy and imagination and permeates most everything that provokes tender emotions.

Hand a flower to a stranger. Let someone go ahead of you in a checkout line. Give a quick compliment to something a passerby wears. Share a laugh.

I’ve become staunchly trusting in my uncoupled self. It’s been a natural and rather easy process. Many women of my generation cope well with living alone.

Growing up in the 50s and 60s, we were well trained in the domestic skills designed to make us good wives, but also destined to support living alone. We trained on committees, in volunteer work and at potluck dinners. We were experts at stocking the refrigerator, sharing our homemade soups, separating light from dark.

Being single was motivation for learning how to hang pictures, splice wires, flip a circuit breaker, refinish furniture, paint walls and know when to use WD-40.

I’ve learned to respect my idiosyncrasies and love my small indulgences. I want this pillow here and that houseplant there. I want the blanket folded up and the toilet seat put back down.

We do not have to ask permission. We can choose what programs to watch and what music to listen to. I love eating what I want when and where I want to eat it whether at the table, or on the porch or somewhere with a scenic view. Like many single old women, I enjoy daydreaming, idealizing memories and indulging in coquettish sentiments. It’s fun. It’s safe.

Comfort is a priority. There’s luxury in owning the day’s schedule and having the option of arriving late and leaving early. And since I no longer base my preferences on consensus protocol, my choices are as individual and varied as my hair color.

I love crawling into bed at eight, inviting the dog up and watching television until I get sleepy. Lights off. Lights on and the guilty pleasure of getting back up to go into the kitchen for a spoonful of ice cream, or handful of peanuts or whatever dark chocolate I can find.

So from the chair where I rock, a long solid whiff of romance is enough.

Besides, I need all my closet space.

C.K. Wolfson lives in Oak Bluffs.