The grass is always greener in someone else's bag...

Gretchie doesn't normally drink more than a glass of wine, but is feeling celebratory as is in the City for a conference. So brace thyself...

I love conferences! Learning and delegates and networking, oh my!

Having recently excused myself from recent full employment, a natural extension of my Fuck-you-I-won't-do-what-you-told-me attitude was to find a five-star hotel on http://www.hotwire.com/ for the length of the conference and book it, baby. I don't know if staying in shwank digs is attracting Positive Energy or just making me feel more fraudulent than ever. Either way, I'm revelling in an abundance of sparkling white towels and the perversity of deluxe living in my newly unearning state.

A selective myopic optimism has gotten me this far. The conference is splendid, full of earnest speakers and delegates brimming with good cheer. And yes, I homed in very quickly on the attractive youngyoung Greek economist/revolutionary type at lunch and made a new buddy, to whom I idly suggested that he take me for dinner tomorrow. He agreed. I emit a pheromone these days which is proving irresistable to men who cannot stay more than a few days in my company. Fine by me; it is also what I am attracted to at this time.

Now, before my darlings think my life is all one glamour-filled spread featuring hot and horny Calvin Klein underwear models and champagne brunches, let me disabuse you of a few notions.

1. Singles have more sex.

Maybe some do, but myself, I took a vow of celibacy upon break-up in early 2009. Having been involved nine years with a good man, in many regards, I wasn't eager to rush into anything approaching intimacy with another. I hadn't been single more than six months since I was 19 (and that's 17 straight years ago, little ones). I had some discomfort as to my reason--or lack thereof--for being a serial monogamist, and decided I just needed to stop acting from the heart or the cunt or whatever combination was leading me thus. Just stop.

So I did. And I mean cold turkey, I didn't as much as tousle my own hair affectionately for six months. I took all that energy and pile-drived it into work and friendships and exercise and you know something? I didn't explode in a frustrated spray of female ejaculate, I actually felt pretty good and calm and in control.

Ok, so it didn't last or else this blog would be about Shakti, a Hindu devotee who drinks her own piss and subsists on lentils and that wouldn't be any fun past the ewww stage. But it was good while it lasted, and abstinence--despite its dour reputation--was a bracing tonic when I needed it most.

2. My life as a Single is glamorous.

Actually, no. I'm a dork. I like Scrabble. I love conferences! I read non-fiction and have an almost morbid interest in nutrition, and usually keep a cache of prunes in my car in case I need a high-energy, high-fibre snack on the go. I do my best thinking while I'm running through the woods with my dogs, or having a leisurely crap. And "my best thinking" invariably runs along the lines of strategic communications or creating beneficial partnerships or storylines for screenplays or crafting proposals for an interdisciplinary MBA in 2010. Hardly hot stuff, but things I'm genuinely interested in.

Being alone does allow me more time for reflection, but I cannot dress it up as anything that is particularly flashy or sexy.

3. Singles have more romance in their life.

I have a vibrating synthetic penisthing. It is underwhelming. Allow me to make a plea to the Okiya Corporation to bring back the Big Indian model. They apparently yielded to the Moderate Penis lobby a few years back, and now only make sensibly-sized units aka the Indian (in a variety of pretty colours, granted. But I don't want a My Little Pony. Crassly: I want a My Little Pony Dick).

The 20-something, probably penis-hating sales clerk tried to reason with me, saying she'd read that the average vagina could only accommodate 5 inches. That's fine, but my dear, I'm not looking to accommodate 5 inches. I'm not setting up vag hotel for Extended Stays & Holidays. A big dick, whether real or made of phthalate-free silicone, is intuitively more interesting to me than average. Technically, my vagina can pass a baby the size of a decent Thanksgiving turkey, so please, no appeals to theoretical space limitations.

Ladies, ask yourself: when was the last time a man pulled out a giant cock and you shook your head sorrowfully and said "I'm sorry, but that's too big. I've read I can only accommodate 5 inches, so please put that away." Yes, exactly.

So romance. On a day to day basis, sisters, you probably experience far more than yours truly. When it occurs in my life, as it has recently, it does so with the frequency and likelihood of a meteor shower. Startling in its unexpectedness, and yes, resulting beauty. But odds are you are living with constellations of your own, that you see on so reliable a basis as to have grown inured.

I cannot say I'd trade what is mine for the familiar star shine of dear old Orion or Ursa Major. I can say that a grateful face, upturned to the heavens, and an open heart is a good place to start.

Cheers, salud and good night
Gretchie