Sometimes I wonder if while lying on my deathbed, I will wish I had been more social.

To the extent that a 33-year-old person in the full throngs of adulthood can blame her parents for being a recluse, I do. My mom and dad are quiet, reserved people. They’re lovely human beings. Compassionate, and smart. Just not outgoing. They wildly prefer to be left alone.

When I was a kid, I didn’t have birthday parties. I think my parents considered them too much work. All those kids, all that cleanup. When I turned 7, finally I was allowed to choose three friends to have over for cake, ice cream and presents. The selection process was daunting. It made me think hard about who were my best friends. I had to leave a girl named Amanda out, and that caused all kinds of problems.

As I got older, my parents didn’t encourage me to do things outside of school with other kids. They didn’t actively discourage it either. It was almost the familial cultural equivalent of the phrase “don’t ask, don’t tell.”

My social stance now pretty closely mirrors that of my 7th birthday party. I gravitate toward a few people who I find quite special. Otherwise, I keep to myself. Not only are long nights out rare, they also sound miserably unappealing. Give me home. Homemade cocktails. My bed. A warm shower when I wake up after 8-10 hours of non-nocturnal sleep. Yes. Give me that. Boring? Maybe. At peace? Very much.

I’m not on Facebook. I’m on Twitter but only to get news and ideas for things to do around town. I’m not on Instagram (I do stalk, but only two people I’ve never met). Everything else, the millions of everything elses: No.

Which makes me a dinosaur, really, because that’s how it’s done now. That’s one-half of being extroverted. That’s one way people come to care about you, because you choose to let them in. Even if it’s digitally.

My parents love me and I love them too, but we’re not close. I don’t have tons of friends. I have people who have little ones who play with my little one at our house because I refuse to make the same mistake. I seek who I seek, and as for the rest of life, I experience it with myself. I’ve been called narcissistic because of that. I’ve been told I hide because I have something to hide. The truth, though, is simple: This is the way I’ve chosen. This is the path I’ve carved.

That is why sometimes I wonder if while lying on my deathbed, I will be pleased with my life, because it was mine.