Howl: With Apologies To Ginsburg

Wolves howl with their pack: Hey, did you see the dead possum over there? Who’s got cub duty tonight? Anyone looking for a good time? Man, that full moon’s so bright we’ll never sneak up on a deer!
Lone wolves howl for themselves: How come I can’t seem to find a date? Why does it seem like I’m the only one who didn’t get that joke the guy on TV just told? What a beautiful full moon; so glad I can appreciate it–by myself, no one to interrupt my reverie.
Not that lone wolves are hermits, spending their lives in caves, contemplating navels. Well, one navel: their own. They do the grocery shopping, work in people-packed cubicles, commute on subways, even go to parties or out to movies with friends. But lone wolves never quite “connect.” In a perfect, or imperfect, world, they would be happy to spend an evening curled up with a cat or three, reading Jane Austen and drinking Gunpowder green tea. That’s the lone wolf’s “comfort zone.”
And yet, not the zone they would always prefer. When they see others schmoozing at the office party or hugging with genuine affection the members of the book club or being the one people go to for everything from comfort in hard times to fun in good, lone wolves don’t feel superior; they feel–lone. In a world that values human connection, lifelong friends and deep bonding with loved ones, the lone wolf will never be fully accepting of being  the “odd wolf out.” They will wonder, if not every day, then at times, “Why am I not able to be part of the pack?”
Just as the pack wolf will sometimes tire of having his nose stepped on by another pack member when he’s trying to sleep, the lone wolf will sometimes wish someone would step on her nose.