I should be snuggling with a bare chest and boxer wearing hunk, but I’m lounging on the couch wearing oversized sweats, a black hoodie (zipped up to my neck), my dad’s old tube socks (the ones with the hole right at the big toe) and the “black girl” bonnet while wrapped in a wool army blanket. What else is a single woman to do on a cold and breezy fall night?
To help ease my pain from singleness, I have 1/2 a coffee mug of Haagen Dazs (attempting to watch my caloric intake) Mango Sorbet, a snack size box of raisins, cinnamon apple chips, and a gallon of water (sitting at room temperature). There’s no such thing as gluttony … it’s just an old wive’s term.
Triple Sigh! I’m watching a marathon of Sex in the City and wishing I had the power to escape my reality and transform into the ethnic Carrie Bradshaw. Hell, I would even be Samantha for a few seconds … minutes would turn me into a certified nymphomanic.
Sexless in the City is my newfound reality.