What women think
October 2008

Secret single behaviour

I've lived alone for far too long. Even Helen Keller could see that. My adult daughter opted to spend a year with her dad, and without the constant reminders of a shared life with another, let alone a husband or significant other, I have lazily indulged myself to the point of being scandalous.

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Of most significance would be the seven different types of shampoo and conditioner. Every day, I'm not quite sure if my hair is dry, damaged, coloured, lacking volume, frizzy, or just plain dirty. So I have bought one for each occasion. Well, it's not like my shampoo has to fight for space in the shower caddy.

Interestingly, I don't have a shampoo for "normal" hair. That's because I gave up believing in "normal" about a decade and a half ago. Somewhere around the time Michael Bolton and taffeta wedding dresses lost favour.

I think I have amassed about 50 lip glosses; most are in the same colour, just different brands. This is always cause for consternation when a visiting girlfriend asks if she can use a lip gloss and I produce the tool box that houses them.

My fridge is packed with rocket, pesto, tofu, chicken breasts, organic eggs, vine-ripened tomatoes, haloumi, chutney and brie. My pantry boasts herbal teas, chick peas, brown rice, sunflower seeds, raw almonds and diet shakes.

Don't get me started on my shoes. I am somewhat obsessed with footwear. Regular readers of this column will not be surprised when, at last count, I had 89 pairs of stilettos  not counting boots.

My DVDs include Notting Hill, Love Actually, Pride and Prejudice, The Secret Life of Us, Grey's Anatomy and Working Girl (and I wish I had a head for business and a body for love ...)

My CDs include John Farnham, Norah Jones, Frank Sinatra and, God help me, Leo Sayer.

On my bed is white 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, matched with a pale pink doona and a hand made teddy bear.

Which has always caused problems when Lover Bloke comes over. His needs are simple: can of VB, Fox Sports News, ashtray, magazines in the toilet and steak and chips, eggs optional.

Unfortunately, I am unable to supply any of these.

Which might account for why he prefers that I visit him at his place.

But this SSB transcends the physical. The joy of living alone means I can wear high heels while I do the housework. Mind you, I have never actually worn high heels and done the housework (I usually wear a grimace and a stop watch - most days I would rather watch a lawn bowls tournament than do housework) but at least I know I can.

It also means I can come home from work, pour a glass of wine, and opt to either play air guitar with the Red Hot Chili Peppers or lip-sync to Abba. Not bad choices for a Tuesday night, I say. I can fly away on a zephyr (even if it's not my own) or be a dancing queen.

I've been known to take my dinner, my crossword, my book, my wine and my laptop to bed. If you thought having a Lover Bloke in your bed was fun, try my combination. There were six in the bed and the little one said&

SSB lets me talk on the phone till the wee hours of the morning. Depending on how many alcoholic beverages I have enjoyed over this chatting period, I can view myself as a nuclear physicist dispensing political funding opinion or a brain-dead blonde pondering the merit of Paris Hilton winning a spell-a-thon.

It also lets me put on my Greatest Hits of the 80s CD, push my lounge against the wall and dance barefoot with only a hairbrush-come-microphone for company. I can order a Margarita pizza at midnight, I can eat baked beans at 6pm, or I can write until dawn.

I can pumice my heels with the bathroom door open. I can walk around for half an hour with a face mask on without fear that someone will take my picture (that actually happened to me once and I still have a problem talking to the person who did that). I read the weekend papers until noon. I can have thrush, a hangover, weeds in the garden or an unpaid rates bill and it affects no one but me.

I have risen at 4am to join the treadmill for an hour. I have worked back at the office till 11pm without need to apologise. I have smoked a sneaky cigarette in the kitchen while waiting for a white sauce to thicken. I have stayed in my pajamas until 5pm. I have rearranged the living room furniture in the middle of the night.

On the downside, it means that I sometimes wake up at 3am on the couch, with all the lights on, the TV still blaring and the back door wide open. And I'm still in my work clothes.

I have gone past the requisite seven days and still not changed my sheets. I have worn the same bra for three days in a row and the same pair of black trousers twice. I have smelt the milk when it has passed its use by' date and shrugged and thought "it'll be ok". I have gotten out of bed at midnight when an urgent phone call told me that I really need to be at this party because "it-is-the-best-night-ever".

Now and then I do an audit of my life. Probably a little more now than then. When I look at it in black and white I become somewhat thoughtful. Sure it's an indulgent way to live, but I question the morality, ethics or political correctness that ensues. Are idle hands the devil's tools? And are those hands currently holding a wine glass and a hairbrush?

Something's got to give. And something did. My daughter is off to university next year and she's returning to the roost, and bringing the equivalent of an exchange student with her.

I'm just working out where I'm going to put those 89 boxes of shoes that I have been storing in her old wardrobe.

Read other columns written by Bron

Bron McClain p 0412 326 300 e bron@bronmcclain.com