“How to Die Alone” existed long before JD Vance mounted his campaign against childless women, but the timing of its debut landing smack in the middle of the cat lady era couldn’t be better. The title sums up what misogynistic men believe to be the single woman’s greatest fear when the reality is that it's everyone's.

Natasha Rothwell’s Melissa confirms some of those assumptions as the show starts. She doesn’t have a pet at that point, to be clear. She doesn’t have much of anything going on besides a job at JFK driving travelers from gate to gate, enthusiastically spouting facts about the places they’re going. The tragedy is that she’s afraid to fly, which is both a true phobia and a metaphor for the rest of her life.

Mel is in a rut. She can’t trust any intimate relationships and feels alone despite being surrounded at work by friends who adore her. Her 35th birthday coincides with the double whammy of receiving an invitation to her ex-boyfriend Alex’s destination wedding and a knock into the afterlife, briefly, when a shelving unit she's just purchased and put together by herself falls on her.

Mel wakes in a hospital and is informed that she died for three minutes, which is a very practical way to inspire anyone to step up their business of living.

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Rothwell created, stars in and serves as an executive producer in this show, one that mimics the basic architecture of many affirming shows or movies designated as simple, solidly entertaining and not-too-challenging comforts.

Those are not pejoratives but assets. One example that immediately and affectionately comes to mind is “Survival of the Thickest.” “How to Die Alone” occupies the same space in my heart and sensibilities as that comedy, and those who have seen “Survival” may recognize this as high praise.

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