Summer in the City

The skin where my thighs meet is a little sweaty, and I'm trying to minimise the tell-tell signs of the heat, as my face is bright red, and my cleavage a little shiny with perspiration.

These are the issues I worry about in the heat of summer, rushing back from a glorious lunch with the Acting Girls.

As usual, our conversation centred around the perils and adversity of dating in Sydney. A city of 6 million, in which I estimate 1.5 are men in their twenty-somethings. And yet, we are all still single.

Kate-Hudson-look-alike and Femme-Fatal-Wanna-Be and myself, a self confessed Wanna-Be-Hollywood-Starlet.

I'm really not sure what there will be left to talk about when we are eventually in relationships.

Kate-Hudson is sleeping with the same guy as four years ago when she was 20, although he is still with his live-in girlfriend. She is chasing a CK underwear model, (who is the hottest guy I literally have ever seen), and I wish I had the guts to tell her, he's just not that into you. And so each acting class and party and function and casting, where he is, she makes a complete and utter fool of herself. A stray cat has more of a chance of getting in CK's pants than she does unfortunately.

Femme-Fatal is gorgeous, just struggling, like all of us, in the dating arena. She has never had a boyfriend and is a walking monument to Man's stupidity. She recently asked out Body Builder from class via text, after 6 months of intense flirting and prolonged kissing scenes. He said he'd love too. But when she suggested dinner and a movie his response was I don't think my girlfriend would be to happy with that. Ah, you kidding me? WTF!

And then there's me. We already know the story. I can't get a break. BM has laid off the stalking, and I'm enjoying the break from avoiding phone calls, incessant texts, and church stalkings.

I watched these friends, who I was so dubious of in the beginning, so pleased to have found such delight in the darkness of a city crowded by the illusion of happiness and friendship. Sometimes the greatest friendships arise out of the least likely places.

More than once in the past month, have I been thankful for the guidance of Carrie Bradshaw and the ladies of Manhattan. They taught us how to date, who not to date, and that being single can be fabulous.

I want you to be what I want

There's a certain sickening memory that pulls you from inside out and makes you want to catch your breathe for fear of suffocation.

A memory embedded deep you hate to admit, feels like the last time yo were ecstatically happy.

He's memory is tainted on my walls, the scent of Christmas night invades my mind with his face. He was my last Happy. He was the last time I considered forever.

He came from no where. Swept the wind from under me, and left too quickly with a little promise for future. He was the last time I uttered love.

And now, 3 years later, he is married and I am still here. In the same house. In the same bedroom with lame pictures of Paris on the walls and an empty double bed.

Summer reminds me of how my fear of deep water evaporated when I was with him. Summer reminds me, of being on holidays and spending every waking moment doing nothing, and savouring the hours just by kissing.

And summer reminds me of what I don't have any more. This is my third summer alone. Alone. The words uttered in cursed silence by the family. The pity and question mark their crooked smiles as they greet me with Christmas cheer. Little Sister introduced BF to the family this Christmas. I braved the questionable glances as to why Big Sister is still single. Questions of career, acting, 'friends' are all a way around the one thing they all want to know. "Is there anyone of special significance in your life?" In other words, "Please reassure us that you are normal and will not be the awkward 40 year old spinster".

I don't care about my single status. It is the choice I have made for right now. I could date about 3 guys right now. But I know I would settle.

And if I am this ok in my mind, then why do I want BM to be something more?

I want you to be what I want.

And so Christmas, Boxing Day, NYE, all remind me I am Still. Single.

And I remind myself. I. Don't. Care.

Even if I do, a little.

The Single Leppor

I experienced the single torture on Saturday night.
Friends, who are now linked to the Previous Friends I Used to Dine With Category of my social mind, shafted myself and 5 single girls to the end of a table.
Bek and I (who is factually the only friend I give permission to read...and is actually dating a 21st Century version of James Dean) arrived 20 minutes late, had Loz rearrange the table so we could sit with her, and spoke excitedly with the Birthday Girl over our outfits and shoes. In come couple number 31...and suddenly the perfect night is whisped up into a furry of seat shifting. I'm not sure if it was the Birthday Girl or Nick-The-Dick who I have had hideously disgusting experience with, that forced us from the table with our friends, in favour of couple #31. It doesn't really matter. Fact is, we were placed, at the end of the three tables of our 'closest friends' and their husband-boyfriends-fiances, with the other 3 late comer singles. And one by one, we realised we were the single table.

I guess in moments such as these when you want to through a Prima Donna tantrum and storm out like a Maria Carey, composure and cocktails and fake smiles are all you can do. And so we sipped out Martini's and Cosmo's flirted with the Black English Waiter and pretended we didn't want to leave, in favour of some 'single party' where 'poor single people' mingle.

And thus, my conclusion is, I dislike couples. I vow, never to be That Couple. To many friends are falling subject to that fate. Those who vowed they never would when we were single girls sharing Champers and Hot Tubs late at night. (Bek, for the record you are not in this category!)

I will be an inclusive couple. I will be friends with all the singles who feel like lepper's and aliens. The world is cruel to us socially deformed girls without a boy's arm or wallet for support.

Did Sex and the City teach us nothing?