Why would a single, cosmopolitan gal like myself make such a choice? Well, for those of you who have read most of this blog, the answer is probably crystal clear. If you are a new reader, all you need to know is that I need to just be still. In my heart. In my home.
When I was in the midst of my last big relationship, which was really not working, I used to imagine my single-hood. In my fantasy life, it consisted of a fabulous bachelorette pad (check), lots of fun social engagements (check), many long baths (check), and a string of lovers to delight and amuse me (check. sort of.)
In the reality of single-hood I have realized something essential, which I was initially frustrated by. On occasion, I have met a perfectly fine fellow who I could simply enjoy a good romp with, however the boys that actually move me are the ones I get very attached to, so as soon as you introduce sex into that mix, I start to feel things. Lots of things. I also start to imagine scenarios involving this other person, and forget my promise to live in the moment. The best way to this girl’s heart is apparently NOT through her stomach.
Things like shopping for chutney together in an open-air market become vastly symbolic. Each lyric that is sung or typed becomes rich with meaning, and charged with emotion. When you make me soup from a chicken-carcass you’ve frozen I feel like you have infused it with love, and are feeding it to me in squashy liquid form. And for god’s sakes, when you stand out in the rain, while getting over a cold, to watch me perform at an exclusive engagement, I think it means something big. Big. Not casual.
Not casual. I am not casual. I am french cuffs with your great grandfather’s monogrammed cuff links on an Egyptian cotton shirt that fits like its supposed to. I am your Auntie’s cherished chutney recipe with that secret ingredient handed down from generation to generation. I am the real crystal that sings to you when you trail a slightly wet finger slowly around the rim. I am linen pressed with lavender water, fluffy monogrammed towels, and real silver tea service polished to a shine.
I am not casual. A slightly tipsy make out is great fun, but the big guns are going to be reserved. Casual sex is like a stale cookie. It’s still kind of tasty if you have a major craving, but it isn’t gooey, and warm, and you certainly won’t want to dip it in milk.
There is an expression that used to make me cringe: “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free.” Its utterly (pardon the pun) offensive. First, because in this modern age, I feel a woman should be able to have sex when she feels like it, without playing head games. Second because it makes men sound like callous idiots who are only running around in search of as much free dairy as they can get their lips around. I also think this is gross because I don’t like to think of myself as livestock.
But guess what? If my field research is accurate, this expression might be horrifically true. Nobody is in the market for a cow, and up until Saturday, I was a bovine at well-staffed dude ranch with over-active mammary glands.
If you have magic beans, then we can talk about a deal. I will lead my prize Jersey into the market square, and you can have a look at her from every angle. You can inspect her teeth for signs of disease. You can smack her rump to check her muscle tone. I may even climb your beanstalk…but this time, I’m only going to do it for the golden egg. And by god, there better be a giant involved.