Remember when we met?

There must be some kind of perk to being the only single person in a room with three couples, all staring googly-eyed and unable to lose physical contact with one another. Like, maybe a bag of candy, or psychadelic drugs to hallucinate yourself a partner to match the other groups. Not that everyone should act like a single person to appease me; that would be elitist and wrong. But I felt slightly mislead, as I thought I was going to a party. Subjective in nature, a party could really be anything, however I think we can all agree that it rests somewhere in the vague realm of less than a wedding, but more than a poker match. I'm not sure what this was, only that it was dangerously close to a smoky backroom and a deck of cards (high Twos).
A friend recently informed me that at a dinner party, she once sat between a couple, only to have them hold hands behind her back whilst reminiscing fond moments, like the time they met. Really?

It's not like I haven't tried being a non-single, or the subjuntive form, a "couple". It's that every time I try, I become uninspired and unmotivated. I realize it's difficult, being a whole couple of inches taller than most people. One suave champion told me not that we would have beautiful babies together, but that we would have giant babies together. In my top ten pickup lines received are the bold "You must bench 350.", the more predictable "Can you slam dunk a basketball?", and the painfully emasculating "I had to wait until you were sitting down." I'm still confused about the third one. Were we to ever enter a relationship, would I have been sitting down the whole time? How would I get from place to place? How would I slam dunk a basketball? How am I not married with children?

The dating scene in this city is dismal. I am either confronted with men who can't place Spain on a map, men who think a P.Eng will earn them a one-way ticket to the bedroom, or men who try to recruit me for rugby. I'd even try dating one of them, like say the engineer with the watermarked business card, except at dinner he'd probably end up with a fork in the eye and I'd end up with the hospital bill, which I could only afford if I was married to the P.Eng in the first place. They say a bird in hand is worth two in the bush...is a ring in hand worth a fork in the eye?

The saddest part of all is that there are so few eligible bachelors left in this socially-wasted metropolitan that unbeknownst to him, a friend of a friend actually tried setting me up with my own brother, because, of course, we were both tall! Because when there's no one left to turn to, take a note from European royalty! It's not incest, it's succession!

Single and loving it! (?)

During my lunchtime at work, I entertained myself reading that bible of all investigative journalism: The Calgary Sun. In the middle of this thick stack of news-worthy articles, I found myself staring at a whole page of reasons to love being single during the holidays.
Now, I'm sure you've all seen Bridget Jones' Diary, but this went above and beyond. Third down the list was the very legitimate "spoiling yourself during a season for giving". It began innocently, with not just a mere manicure but a whole day at the spa! I was feeling pretty good about myself until it dramatically switched gears. Right after a relaxing massage by hot swedish masseuse, it suggested doing all those things that apparently, couples don't have time for but wish they had, like putting up shelves, and installing a new toilet.

What?

If I get what they're saying, then I should be ecstatic with the prospect of cleaning the bathroom blinds instead of snuggling up beside Shaw's fireplace on channel 1 (or 11, depending if you want the silent fire or the realistic crackling with Christmas music) on the skin of a bear my manly man slaughtered himself.

Romantic sleigh ride through central park followed by candelight dinner and mediocre sex? Scratch that you unfortunate lovers! I'm spending a wild night in knocking back a few and playing myself in chess on the new Liatorp Ikea coffee table I've spent hours assembling. God I'm a lucky, lucky woman.

To top it off, last week a magazine entitled "2" came in the mail, a literary treasure trove of ways to become even more of a couple, and how not to get fat and ugly now that you're in one. Thanks Canada Post, you've done it again. What would three single gals do without you?


Contained in the pages of this tell-all Garden of Eden-style Cosmopolitan were useful answers to questions such as:


And of course the commonly sought:


Hello?! Your husband is gay!

The remaining pages are filled with pictures of models acting like upper East side Jewish couples and advertisements for making your teeth really, really white. I'd say bah humbug, but I can't lie, I always wish for a white Christmas.