not everyone likes oysters

29, 31, 32, 32, 34, 40...

My waist sizes over 10 years? Not quite. And let's hope that last one never features again!

No, they're the ages of a mere handful of nearest and dearest to me, who find themselves single in the prime of their lives.

Not that singledom is a curse. If that were so I'd seldom leave my tomb. But few of them are single by choice, and it sucks.

These aren't flighty or frivolous men and women, lacking the ability to connect with another. 

They're attractive, educated, socially responsible and culturally savvy. Indulging in achievement and opportunity in equal measure, they reach for the stars with every lateral stretch.

They have it all. The world is their oyster! But not everyone likes oysters.

Increasingly, it seems, the plat du jour wins favour over the piece de resistance. The primped and polished keep coughing up hairballs in the wake of every contemporary caveman. (I tried to avoid reference to the bearded hipster, but I drink too much quality coffee so he was bound to pop up).

Is their success intimidating? Is their richness of life too heavy for our low-fat leanings? Or maybe the problem is choice. 

Me Tarzan. You Jane. Yes, it was so much simpler then! And I might be Tarzan but you're Jane, Jayne, Jainne and, of course, John.

There are just so many options now on the shelf. And maybe the top shelf is just too high up. 

the saddle is very comfortable on my high horse

And so it begins. The memoirs musings malaise? of a soon-to-be-32 year old single male. In Melbourne. In marketing. In search of...

...well, nothing in particular. A new avenue of creativity perhaps? 

Because I'm in 'no-junk July' phase, and my usual Saturday afternoon outlet of baking is off-limits given that it's been five days since my last piece of chocolate. Five days, 11 hours, 46 M&Minutes and hundreds and thousands of seconds since happiness deserted me...

Desertion. Dessert. Stop it!

Why no junk? Well, it was my sister's initiative and we're tired of the stranglehold sugar has on our lives. An exhaustion that will no doubt have worn off come August 1 when sugar and I become reacquainted : )

But this isn't supposed to be a diary. Bleah! Because no-one's interested in the minutiae of anyone's day, and if they are there's this thing called 'Twitter' that might appeal to them.

I don't know about Twitter. I've a disinterest in Pinterest. And if it were up to me Facebook would be spiral bound. In the digital realm I'm an old man who's set in his ways.

And I like my ways. It's very comfortable up here on my high horse. I have a bird's eye view of tan tote-toting Toorak twenty-somethings, and I can easily reach down to swipe the orange Oakleys off Kayden on day-release from Bendigo.

I have a fabulash life, and I make no apologies for it. Actually I apologise several times a week during Catholic guilt pangs. But no one takes those protests seriously. In fact, very few take me seriously.

And I like it like that.