As Chastity prepares herself for another go at the mercy of Mother Nature, Kyle tells her that he has decided to go with her to see the play. Mind you, at this point the woman, clad in a sweater and jeans, had one foot out the door. Before anyone could bat an eye, she was back in the bathroom, changing into a skin-tight denim dress. Really? This is the behavior real women engage in? I thought that this act — one that I'd only seen before in television and movies — was very predictable and rather sad. Did she really think this was necessary? Apparently, she did, or he wouldn't have bothered changing.

More than anything, it makes me sad — and a little bit embarrassed — to see a woman put herself so shamelessly and desperately out there. I have to wonder what Kyle was thinking.

I know that we all commit the equivalent of this action from time to time — wearing that perfect outfit when we know we might see someone that has caught our attention, but subtlety is the key here. You don't make an obvious change in front of their face, and you don't go to such the extreme that it looks posed. I know this was a one-shot deal for Chastity, as we were in a hostel in Ireland, and this gent was currently residing in Spain. But that begs the question: Why bother at all?

I will never be so careless in choosing a partner again — for whatever the reason. I don't care if it's a square-dance partner, I want some proof that I'm not going to want to smack someone by the end of the night. This fiasco has reminded why I travel alone — or with people I have known for years.

Chastity and I manage to get to the airport with time to spare. She finally made lodging arrangements for our arrival, and we are on our way. About nine hours and one Heathrow layover later, we are in Dublin and in our room — a four person mixed dorm room.

This is fine with me, as there are times — like now, with the dollar so weak against the Euro — that I don't mind economy lodging. Even better was the fact that the room was empty when we arrived. Before the night was over, another wayward traveler entered the mix — the very friendly and handsome "Kyle."

As much as I like to think of having random vacation sex, history has shown that this is just not something that is bound to happen with me. Some days, I wish I had a bit more bravado in that department. But I soon realize that to change that aspect of myself would mean being a different person altogether, I quickly let go of those thoughts. Chastity, however, had another idea.

For some reason, I blocked this memory from my mind. In my heavily medicated (I have a serious case of the flu going on) — and apparently incredibly pensive state, I was reminded of an incident from this year's formal.

During the course of the evening, I was approached by an associate of mine who decided to make a kind and predictable gesture, and pay me a compliment. As everyone was dressed in dress that night, it was an appropriate thing to do. Only, this was a compliment gone wrong.

This individual, who shall remain nameless (more for the sake of his wife than for him), proceeded to tell me how my appearance that evening was enough to make him question his 12 years of marriage, and that if he in fact weren't married, that I would have had to beat him off with a stick.

Now, I don't know what kind of a compliment he thought that was, but for me this was completely inappropriate and unacceptable. What made this guy think that this kind of talk was appropriate? Does he think that 12 years of matrimony gives him latitude to say whatever he wants?

Is it because I'm single? Is it because I went to this function without a date? Is it because he's an asshole who doesn't know how to behave in public? Would he dared to have said this if I had been accompanied by an "other" — significant or not?

The whole ordeal boggles the mind while simultaneously chaffing the soul.

It's interesting to go solo to an event. On the one hand, there are the people who wish they had followed suit and look at your freedom with a sort of envy. On the other hand, there are the people who look at you as if you are on the prowl — for their date.

This was also something I had to put up with.

As I floated around the room to chat with my friends, I noticed a few things. Some of these things were small — a glance, getting the once-over by the dates of my male friends, etc. Other acts were on a grander scale: women would make physical contact with their guy, grabbing the hand or an arm. If there was already contact, the grasp became tighter.

This kind of behavior went on for a majority of the evening. The worst of it was an instance where the wife thrust her body in the middle of a conversation as if she were shielding her husband from the treacherous tendencies of the preying single female.

It's not until times like this that I realize how much coupled women fear/loathe single women, though I have absolutely no idea why. It's not as if we are out to take their dates or break up their marriages. I just can't for the life of me figure out when we got such a bad rep.

Ironically, after getting to know me, most of the women told me how much they enjoyed meeting and talking with me. Go figure.

Ah, the spring formal — otherwise known to the best of cynics as "the Prom" — has come and gone. After a last-minute dash to find a new dress (I had the great misfortune of finding out that Sweeney Todd works at my friendly neighborhood dry cleaners and my dress was butchered), I am happy to report that I have survived the blessed event.

While this year's formal was less than noteworthy, I still managed to have a good time. Note to the readers: Bring the fun with you, and you will never have to worry about how lame an event is. It will merely serve as background chatter.

My decision to fly solo was indeed a good one, as I was able to come and go as I pleased, talk to whomever without feeling as if I was neglecting someone else, and just really kick back and enjoy myself.

A few friends were not as fortunate, for they succumbed to the pressures of bringing a date. During the course of the evening, when they were able to steal away, a couple of them mentioned feeling a bit burdened with their newfound responsibilities.

When you're the only person in the room your date knows, it tends to add an unnecessary amount of strain to an evening that is supposed to be enjoyable.

As I see it, going stag is really the only way to go.

I have been wondering this for quite some time. The mere mention of the word seems to make women everywhere cringe. Now, I will admit that I have head the word mentioned in passing and as a reference point in conversation, but never have I known the true meaning of the word as it is being used. For the definition, I turned to darling "Wiki":

"Cougar refers to an older woman, usually in her 40s who sexually pursues younger men in their 20s or early 30s."

Okay, so what?

Having read the definition and having thought through its connotations, I still don't know what the big deal is. Here's my theory: If a woman — whatever her age — finds a man and decides to make a move, rather than sitting around hoping that the man notices her, then this has to be a good thing. If the model comparison of this woman is a strong, sleek, beautiful and independent animal, then, what's to complain about? I mean, really, if women were referred to as jackals or hyenas, animals who hunt in packs or who are notorious scavengers, then I could see where there would be cause for alarm.

Women are quick to call men "dogs" and not bat an eyelash. Conversely, some women take the term "bitch" as a compliment. Why on earth does being called a "cougar" offend our sensibilities? I am failing to see the rationale behind this one.

Irony of ironies, I received a Hallmark e-card on Valentine's Day. Hallmark, for God's sake. But this card was different. It came from my friend Wendy, previously known as "the new girl," and was more of an anti-Valentine's Day celebration than anything.

As the card progresses, it shows all of the possibilities women might encounter while swimming through the dating cesspool — the video game/sports junkie, that guy whose voice is higher than yours and the creepy guy who unfailingly makes you want to call an exorcist after even the briefest of encounters.

I laughed so hard, I shot coffee through my nose. It hurt like hell, but was well worth it.

I was so moved that I sent the card to my mother and my best childhood friend - hey, if I can brighten up the world of another single woman on the least celebrated of days, then why shouldn't I?

It is so easy to lose sight of the fact that being by yourself is not always a bad thing — especially in the case of VD (am I the only one who finds humor in this?), where it has become so commonplace to see people carrying bouquets of flowers so grandiose you have to wonder if you've somehow become lodged in the middle of the Tournament of Roses parade.

This card immediately reminded me of words spoken by George Washington: "It is better to be alone than in bad company," which is precisely the wording I used when sending the card along.

I recently read somewhere that a whopping 41.9% of African-American women never get married. Now, as someone who could care less about that silly piece of paper called a marriage certificate, this wasn't that big of a concern.

The red flag gets raised for me when you compare race. One study reported that by the mid 80s, the number of married African-American women was a mere 32%, compared to 62% of Caucasian women. Several theories were passed around, but no one could come up with an explanation that answered all of the difficult questions.

Of the explanations offered, changes in income and education (in both positive and negative directions) were said to be factors, but since there was never a polarized correlation — meaning there was never a strictly positive or negative association with any one factor — it cannot be given as a definitive answer, meaning there still is reason to study this phenomenon.

It's baffling to me, really. I am aware that marriage rates are declining as a whole, but why has this one group been historically and significantly lower than the others? Being one who relishes in the asking of the difficult questions, I am going to put this one out there: what makes African-American women so "undesirable" for marriage? I mean, I understand that part of it is personal choice (as it is across the board), but a lot of it isn't.

I was recently asked by an acquaintance what was the difference between the celibacy and not getting any. Being my usual defensive self, I prepared myself for the punch line of an unfunny and chauvinistic joke. Rightfully so, since this person's response was that celibacy was what people claimed when they couldn't get any.

I love it when people impose their own beliefs on others' free will.

For the record, the difference between the two is deciding not to randomly have sex with people based on physical attraction alone. When did this become a reason for ridicule?

I am appealing on the side of those of us that have decided to take this path. I am not pushing abstinence as a moral crusader — those who know me know that I am far from being one of those. I am merely saying that there are plenty of other things to focus on in the interim.

I am not saying that I am not a sexual being — quite the contrary. As someone who has been told repeatedly that their sexual energy is damn near tangible, and as someone going through the 30-something power surge, sexuality is very much a part of my existence. The dilemma? I know for a fact that I have other unfinished business to attend to in the foreground, and sex would only serve to derail me from the matters at hand.

One day, my two worlds will collide, and when they do, it should make for some interesting fireworks — if I don't spontaneously combust first.

I don't like Valentine's Day. Never did. I think it is one of the most despicable and commercial days of the year. Think about it, for one out of 365 days of the year, you are going out of your way to tell that "special someone" that you love and care about them. And why are you doing this? Because a writer and a card company have told you that you are supposed to. Damn you, Chaucer, and damn you, Hallmark.

My question is this, why are there so few days out of the year where we are instructed to celebrate the special people in our lives? Birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Valentine's day, and maybe a handful of others are have been set aside for the purpose of looking outside our own lives and remembering that there are people in our lives that deserve some attention, gratitude and a kind word from us.

And on the days not marked by a greeting card, we can tell them all to go to hell?

While I know that some people may think that mine is a somewhat radical view of the state of affairs, one glance at the headlines of any newspaper, a walk down the street or listening to a conversation where those involved go back and forth about themselves tells me that I am not far off.

Are we that self involved a society that we need to have a greeting card company remind us to celebrate other people?