I own a pair of plastic shoes. With metal studs.

(Yes, before you ask, I was possessed.)

Nothing else can possibly explain this:

To be fair, I have never worn them. It appears I only practice good judgment after I have handed over my credit card. (Um…Reason #3, 488 I’m still single?)

Do you have any items in your closet that cause you to pause and say, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’

Your weekend project is to crawl into your wardrobe, find your tackiest pair of shoes, accessories, clothes WHATEVER and then head over to the Hope Dies Last Facebook Page here and upload your photo in the super, cool album I’ve aptly titled ‘WTF?!’

Let’s share in mutual embarrassment, shall we?

I doubt this list needs an introduction. But secret single behaviours are those quirky, weird, embarrassing habits we all develop after living alone for some time. These are some of mine.

• Watch a time-wasting show (like One Tree Hill) and pluck the stray hairs on my legs. (I feel the same satisfaction as I did at my university graduation when I find and have to remove an ingrown).

• Eat Chinese takeout in bed while testing my celebrity knowledge on People.com

• Pretend to have a captivated audience when I cook.

• Channel Taylor Swift in her You Belong With Me video and do goofy dances in my bedroom (Hairbrush as microphone is a MUST)

• Rearrange something in one room of my house every week

• Without fail, check the progress of my eye wrinkles in the bathroom mirror after a shower. (Smile. Solemn face. Smile. Solemn Face. Smile. Solemn Face.)

• Secretly love, watch and cry during every movie set in a high school ever. (Do you have any favourites you can recommend?)

• Take obnoxious self-portraits on my Mac before going out.

• Facebook stalk until my hand is numb.

• Facebook stalk until I am convinced that every single person on earth is living a much better life than I am.

• Ask my cat questions. (For example, ‘Do you think he’s going to call? OK, fine. If you think he’s going to call, just sit there staring at me.’

What are your secret single behaviours?

Often conversation among my friends will turn to my perpetual single status. My girl friends do not understand the reason that men are not slamming doors, crossing intersections and vaulting over electrical fences to get to me. (My friends are awesome.) Acquaintances and male friends, on the other hand, are quick to fill me in on all the potential reasons I am still unattached. Some have been on the mark, and others have been absurd.  I’ve collected them all (and included some of my own reasons) in this list.

I don’t have a boyfriend because…

…I don’t go out consistently enough.

…I don’t work in an office.

…my friends’ friends are apparently ‘not good enough’, ‘not old enough’, ‘not liberal enough’ for me.

…I live in Greece. (Apparently, I do not possess qualities that Greek men find attractive.)

…I don’t drink alcohol.

…I don’t do one night stands.

…I’m too aggressive. (Rawr.)

…I’m too shy.(Miao.)

…I have high expectations.

…men are hunters. And I don’t let them be. (I know, I know. It is scandalous that I like you too, dude. How dare I?)

…I don’t flaunt my cleavage.

…I’m not ‘fun’ and ‘laidback’ (That is an outrageous lie. My definition of fun is getting laid on my back. Boom!)

…I don’t present myself as a potential girlfriend. Instead, I present myself as a friend.

…I’m desperate. (Your face is desperate.)

…I’m unlovable.

…I’m unlucky.

Why don’t you have a boyfriend?

I’m not a natural flirt.

I have spent quite a few years actively observing the friends that are and have spent a few more years trying to imitate their behaviour. I’ve yet to master it.

Natural flirts are like ballerinas. They’re graceful. I watch them dance and think  How hard can it be to balance your body on your toes and twirl?  Then when I attempt to do it, on the balls of my feet, I lose my center of gravity and fall into an accidental squat with my butt parallel to the ground and my arms outstretched like a toddler while both hands try to hang onto whatever wall, or person, or plant is closest.

I’m a clumsy flirt.

When I’m careful, I drop meaningful glances in the direction of the object of my lust. If it is a loud night and he is close, I’ll lean in and talk into his ear. My fingers will be close to my mouth. I’ll pretend that I can’t hear so that he is forced to come close to me too. Sometimes, I’ll twirl a strand of hair. I’m subtle. It’s a defense and it works. Because if said man does not reciprocate with an inflated chest and his hand softly on my back move, I don’t lose any face. Problem is, with this discreet flirting, if the dude blinks he might miss it.

When I am a little confident (because of a great hair day or vodka), I flirt with my tongue.  My body freezes and my words are ballsy and provocative. They are not subtle at all. ‘You’re not leaving until you kiss me.’ was my most recent gem. It is only when horror crept into the eyes of the recipient that I realized I had tripped over the line and fallen face first into FlirtFail territory.

I sway from flirting that cannot be detected by the human eye to flirting that can be seen from space.

I’m clearly not a natural.

Are you?

Dearest Anon,

I received a phone call from a blocked number the other day. I thought it was you. For no other reason than if this was four months ago it would have been you. Two missed calls– blocked–one after the other. I racked my brain to think of an alternative. Who else would call me a little before 9 p.m? My bank–who also hides their number–don’t call that late to harass me.

It must have been you, I hoped. Or maybe I didn’t. I don’t really know.

Days later it occurred to me that it could have been Zara. Earlier that day I had asked for a pair of black boots. They told me they would call to confirm if they had them in my size.

Now a pair of black, flat boots that are not too pointy and not too round are hard to find and so naturally I was confused.

Did I want that blocked number to have been you? Or my boots?

There was simply no choice.

I wanted the boots.  I chose shoes over you.

I think we can now safely assume that in leaving me, you left me beautifully unbroken.

E

A new year cannot really feel like a new year until the previous year has been dissected, right? So here it is. 2009.  (2008 can be found here)

In the first hours of 2000, I spun around a dance floor in South Africa. I was blond. I would line my eyes with kohl black. I was in love. Later that year,  I learned that men lie, sometimes out of fear; sometimes out of guilt and sometimes just because they can. After a successful interview (where the course leader suggested I study English Lit instead of psychology) I was accepted into a good university. I saw Germany for the first time. I wasn’t impressed. I made tons of new friends. I don’t speak to any of them now. I tried pot and sex for the first time. Was left completely indifferent to one of those, I’ll let you decide which one.

In 2001, I broke up with a man for the first time because no matter what anyone tells you LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIPS are hard and don’t usually work out. I lived it up. I drank far too much and ate far too little. I was thin! I kissed a couple of frogs; they did not turn into princes. I met two of my closest friends. We would coffee it up all the time. With about a year of general psychology courses under my belt I was that annoying 20 year old that thought she knew all about the human psyche. I was an idiot.

Much of 2002 was about falling in love. He was kind and gentle and quirky and fun. He hated buttons and was a writer. I was inspired. I lived with my best friends.  I wore the coolest black and white PUMAS. My hair was still blond. And long. And dry. I smoked Muratti cigarettes because their filters were white. Even though I had payed a six month gym membership, I never stepped through those doors. Addicted to chimichangas.

In 2003, I chopped off my hair and went back to my natural colour. I learned the importance of backing up all my files; after I lost most of my final year dissertation two weeks before the deadline. I loved Barcelona! I graduated from university. I began learning how to teach. Beyonce’s ‘Crazy in Love’ turned out to be damn addictive. I was a girlfriend. It didn’t make me as happy as I thought it would. But, balance. I had that.

2004 began so quietly and unobtrusively that I had no inkling that this would be a year that would forever be ingrained in my memory as the beginning of most of my woes. The good? I became a teacher. I began to write. ATHENS OLYMPIC GAMES. I lived in the same country as my best friend. I bought my first pair of black leggings.
The bad? I was dumped. I had surgery. Sex and the City and Friends ended. I wore a short, dusty pink faux fur. A terrible fashion moment.

The first few days of 2005, I was in denial. I had residual anger and sadness from the year before. Then, I began to make decisions. I’ll be happy! I’ll learn French! (It worked  for a little. I speak no French today.) London was bombed. I started my masters there a month later. (I was paranoid.) Walked the streets of Brussels. Panic attacks began. I fell in love with Michael Scofield. My sister got married.

In the first six months of 2006, I studied harder than all the previous years combined. I discovered Grey’s Anatomy and Snow Patrol.  I tried Belgian Beer. It was awesome.I graduated with distinction with a useless postgraduate degree and became a shop girl instead. And an aunt. I learned that rich people can be extraordinarily cheap. And that friendships change. I wore black a lot. Shoes became less pointy. I stopped wearing heels. I joined Facebook.

In 2007, I started this blog. I wrote a screenplay. I got on a plane for the last time. I thought that I would never, ever meet another man I would want to date. At this point, I’d been single for three years. My lips had not kissed another set of lips for the same amount of time. I was desperate and lonely and petrified that nothing would ever change. Then, I met The Man and had an intense, one month affair into…

…2008. This year was marked by a wee nervous breakdown and a diagnosis of Crohn’s. Lost hope. Began therapy. I examined my life. I ate well. I quit smoking for awhile. I got paid for writing. I spent far too many hours watching Jon Stewart. Became single, cat lady. My new bangs changed my look from average girl to cute girl. I still had a hard time calling myself a woman.

In 2009, I met and then almost immediately lost a soul mate. It was tragic. But not as tragic as disappointing all the people closest to me. But even more tragic than that was that I began wearing leggings as pants. My sister from another mother got engaged! I missed it and still cringe at the way fear has set limitations on my life.  Still committed to flats, I ironically became a contributing writer for Running In Heels. I met a new friend whose poetry leaves me weak at the knees. I began writing my first novella. I found hope again.

I wish for me–and for you–that  the next decade is as equally varied and fun, educational and inspiring. I acknowledge that there will be some inevitable pain; but please Universe, easy on the heart-break.

How have you changed over the last decade?

On the Thursday, I walked into The Bar and was faced with two particularly awful sights. One, I came face to face with the object of my unrequited affection out on a date with another woman. Two, I came face to face with the newer man; who after I had decided to take a risk and text him, had remained inexplicably and predictably silent.

On the Saturday, I walked into a church and watched a couple I barely know tie the knot in forever-ness.

On the Monday, I walked into therapy and proceeded to spew such hatred for the human race–particularly for the male subset of our species–that my therapist was speechless.

On the Tuesday, I walked into an emergency room and allowed doctors to admit me overnight for a Crohn’s related infection.

On the Thursday, I walked into The Store to unload brand new items for the Christmas season.

Today, I walked into a church and watched as my nephew was baptized.

***

In the last ten days, I feel I experienced the full breadth of a life. And this is what I observed:

It is beautiful and it is horrible.

In its beauty we learn to pause. And in its horribleness we learn to move.

On Saturday, I found myself justifying my non-promiscuity.

The glazed but surprised eyes looked back at me as if I had just declared that I have gills and swim around in circles all day.

‘What do you mean you have never had a one night stand!?’

‘I mean I’ve never had a one night stand. Which part of that sentence didn’t you understand?’

‘But why? Do you think its slutty for people to follow their natural instincts?’

‘I don’t really care what other people do. But its not something I can do. I wish I could; it sounds like fun. But I can’t.’

I imagine that in his world, I am an alien–an alien with gills. We live in the same neighbourhood of the same city of the same country. We have mutual friends. But his is a life of rich debauchery; money, hot clubs, fast cars,  drugs and women spin on the axis of his world. My life is a stark contrast. A spinning vortex in slow motion. I write, I drink tea at my local bar while making puns with a close circle of friends. Oh! And everyone now and again I go on the odd date and have whirlwind affairs that end badly.

‘How do you expect to get into a relationship if you don’t open yourself to one night stands?’ he asked.

I burst out laughing.

‘You’re joking right?’

‘The only way for a relationship to begin is to meet, sleep together and then see if you like each other.’

‘You’re joking right?’

Now, it was my turn to look at him as if he was a visitor on my planet. He didn’t appear to see the twisted logic of his argument.

‘How about you meet, go out on a couple of dates to see if you like each other and then sleep together?’

‘You’re a prude. And single.’

I wasn’t offended. I enjoy hearing explanations of the possible reasons I am single; the crazier the explanation; the saner I feel.

‘Maybe.’ I offered.

‘Wanna do it in my car?’

‘No.’

***

So, internet, one night stands. Yay or nay?

If we were to ever meet; if we were to ever go out lunching or drinking or even just hanging; if I begin to  quote Southpark, or wax poetic about how much I  like Snoop Dog, Warren G and all good 90s rap; if I start talking about game consoles or Leisure Suit Larry or Asteroids I want you to carefully look around the table.

There is a man at this table. And chances are his smile doth give me the butterflies.

And so my question for today is:

What kinds of things do you suddenly remember that you ‘adore’ when in close proximity to a man you want to impress?