Splendor in the Grass (Someone else's grass, of course!)

I am one of those annoying people who notices, talks about, and wants what she does not have. When 50 people came to my birthday, I pouted over the three who didn’t. I missed seasons while living in Los Angeles. I missed sunshine in New York City. After ordering chicken at a restaurant, I spend my meal envying my companion’s filet mignon.

So it isn’t a surprise that when I was single, I longed to be in a relationship.Then when I got into a retatonship, I missed bemg single. I know they say the grass is always greener on the other side, but how do we know whether to let our feelings of cunosity pass, or leap on over to that other lawn?

According to chick flicks, chick lit and general chicj chatter, it sucks to be single. We are bombarded: Internet dating service ads promise to find us ‘the one.” Magazine articles endlessly advise on “how so land a man.” Dating self-help books explain exactly why we fail in our man-hunts. The Valentine’s Day industry convinces us we want roses, chocolates, and large white teddy bears holding “l love you beary much” signs. A 40-billion-dollar-a-year wedding industry insists your wedding day is the most important of your life. What if we don’t marry? Do the other days of our lives hold no value?

If being single sucks so bad why am I – an engaged woman who found “the one” – so fascinated, obsessed with and often jealous of my single girlfriends?

I live vicariously through my single friends’ cyclical tales of getting asked out, kissed and fucked over and over again. Armed with a shitfoad of feminist theory classes and six seasons of “Sex and the City,” I’m sure I’d do fine solo. Serial dating and one-night stands sound empowering, fun. and glamorous-all of which makes this committed chick want to run for the hills or rather, the bars.

I know some single girls reading this hate me for considering trading a fairy tale for some tail. I know some are burned out by the dating scene and want gluttonous sluts like me to shut up. I know some are thinking, “Oh my God. you are so lucky to be getting married.” Lucky? Did I win my fiance in a raffle or something? Relationships aren’t about luck – they’re about choices. The few dozen of my friends in serious relationships share my nostalgia for the thrill of first dates, first kisses, first fucks (and the second and third). The Question is whether we love the thrill more than our partners.

It’s no wonder the other side seems fun. Now that I’m engaged, more men hit on me than ever before. My diamond ring apparentlly gives guys boners. The bittersweet reality? Having a fantastic partner at home makes us committed girls more confident – and that confidence is sexy. I have nothing to lose by shamelessly flirting my way to a free drink. I exude confidence, and am a safe target for male advances. A guy can hit on me and later say I rejected him not because he was as charismatic as a pap smear and reeked of stale body odor masked by Tag body spray, but because I am unavailable.

As I consider trading my soul mate for a life of fabulous, frisky freedom, a frantic friend calls. Her degenerate cokehead boyfriend of several months admitted to sleeping with a 19-year-old for the same length of time. I forgot getting fucked over was a nasty side-effect of getting asked out, kissed and fucked.

Maybe the grass isn’t always greener on the other side. Both sides seem to have a fair share of shit on the lawn. On that note, next time I’ll order the steak – and enjoy every bite.