Single is as Single Does.

Throughout our lives we are constantly searching, seeking, yearning for our other half, our soul mate. We long for the ying to our yang. The black to our white. The Mars to our Venus. The screw to our bolt. The corndog to our donut.  The 1 to our 0. The sausage to our bun. The So On to our So Forth.

And as we search for this person we suffer horrifically, horrendously, and hyperbolically.

Yes, being single means the loneliness of an empty bed, the cold on a winter’s night when there’s no one there to hold you, having no one to hold your hair whilst you praise the porcelain goddess, having no one drive you to McDonald’s when you have a hang over, no one to buy you a bottle of wine on their way home because you’ve had a shit day and need booze, and no one to laugh at your jokes, because come on – you’re just not that funny.

But somehow, during all our suffering, we seem to forget…

Just how awesome it is to be single.

Money.

When in a relationship you no longer have “My Money” but “Our Money”. The Ex and I had a great arrangement – both our wages went into the one account, however one would then be transferred into a high interest savings account and the other would be considered “spending money”. From this “spending money” we would each get a weekly allowance which we could spend on whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted. However, other purchases made with the joint “spending money” had to be mutually beneficial - bills, groceries, booze.

Apparently, Cabernet Sauvignon is not food.

So, now that I am single my money is now My Money – no allowance, no savings (ok, I lie. There’s still savings) and no one to ask “Do you really need another pair of shoes?”

I can spend what I like as I like without having to justify all those parcels waiting to be collected from the post office in suspiciously shoe sized boxes.

That’s right.

My Money is My Shoes.

Make Up!

Men all agree that they prefer the natural beauty of a woman as opposed to the caked on layers of slap that metamorphose us from normal young women to Oompa Loompas. In all honesty, the majority of compliments I have received since the beginning of my adulthood were all declared during those first moments in the morning when I was completely make-up free.

(Yes, the men providing those compliments were likely horny, but if any man can see through a messy mass of hair, John Howard eyebrows, and crustings of drool at the corners of my mouth to tell me I’m beautiful? Well, they deserve to get laid.)

In a relationship a woman is not allowed to wear lipstick in case her partner wants to kiss her. She can’t wear foundation in case he wants to hug her (and is wearing a white shirt). Quite frankly, Makeup will get you the relationship, but then it has to go; they simply don’t work together.

But now? Now I can wear eyeliner and mascara so thick it looks like small black caterpillars have suffered a cardiac arrest on my eyelids. My cheeks a can be the colours of roses, or peaches or prunes. And most importantly, I can once again wear lip stick, balm, gloss, laquer, tint or stain – as long as they are a shade of red varying between firetruck and sated vampire.

My face is artificially flawless.

Shoes.

Whenever I have been in a relationship I have always had to hide or justify my shoe purchases.

Now, I don’t have to.