Sex And The Country
Anita Ryan
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Stirring Up The Dust
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Issue Eleven: Play
Issue Twelve: Synchronicity
Forget
the impossible love escapades on 'Sex And The City' – those
Manhattan girls have nothing to complain about considering
they find themselves a date every second episode. The real
challenge for any single thirty-something is finding some Sex
In The Country! I would readily give up my magically restored
hymen for any one of those girls' Rejects. Ah, well, maybe not
the 70-year-old saggy butt, but the fig-eater would be high on
my list of come-hithers.
My
sexual draught all started when, seduced by the prospect of
owning a backyard and a complementary pet, I moved from Sydney
to country Western Australia some eighteen months ago. That,
and the dream that I would find my Diver Dan – the sizzling
sexpot from the ABC drama series 'Sea Change'. Oops, did I
say, "drama" series? Oh, I meant to say,
"complete fantasy and beyond the realms of reality"
series.
Why?
Because along with dodo birds and Sensitive New Age Guys,
creatures like Diver Dan are purely mythical and should be
fire branded with a capital "F" for Fake,
Fantastical, Fairy Tale (take your pick) prior to public
presentation.
Why?
Because I’ve looked everywhere for him from the fishing
docks to the local bait store, and there ain't even a hint of a
Diver Dan here in my own version of Sea Change.
After
six months of loitering at the foreshore and in fishing
stores, it occurred to me that perhaps I had just been totally
sucked in by the romance of Sea Change. But then I remembered,
I actually did some research before moving away from the
epicentre of decent coffee and Sunday shopping.
It
only took twenty minutes of net surfing before I’d found the
Bureau of Statistics claim that I would be one of the 28
percent of single professionals aged between 28 – 35 on the
move this year if I decided to go. Good odds, I’d thought at
the time. Good enough to spur me into packing my Prada bags
and point my car west, anyway.
It
was during yet another eye-lash batting session at the seafood
co-operative that it dawned on me there was one question I
should have asked before moving. That was, "where are the
Diver Dans moving to?"
I
thought I was going to be swimming with the current. Not
drowning downstream having people wave back to my frantic
gestures for help. I pictured myself leading the charge with
sword held high prepared for a maelstrom of singles converging
on affordable property and clean beaches. But when I got here,
I found myself in passive couple city safely tucked away
behind their white picket fences.
"Back
to core values!" I sang as I charged forward, eighteen
months ago. "Rediscover leisure time in daylight hours;
syringe-free beaches littered with nought but muscular, tanned
eye-candy; and..."
"...and
shops that shut at 5pm so you have to relearn all your
shopping habits," I am counter-balanced by one more
cynical than I. Oh no, that more cynical person is just me,
eighteen months later, stripped of ideals and shivering in the
reality as I live it.
It
is true though, my idealistic side has to admit. Shops do shut
at 5pm and new shopping habits need to be nurtured. I've
learned to add milk powder and any tinned food that looks
vaguely nourishing to my shopping list. Anything, in fact,
that looks like a handy emergency ration to save me from
starving to death if I work late. Oh well, I figure, focusing
on a mundane shopping list acts like a natural sedative and
takes my mind off the magical hymen grow-over.
I
also numbed my mind (and libido) with an experiment whereby I
spent two months playing by The Rules – I laughed demurely,
I acted popular, I wore make-up and I attended calf auctions
where I’d heard a rumour the farmers all had 5.2 sons.
Tossing
my ponytail flirtatiously got me nowhere at these auctions.
Except once when a badly timed flick won me a brown-eyed calf
called Missy Moo. But other than that, the men only had eyes
for their cows.
So
it wasn't long before I hung up my pearls and twin-set in
defeat. What good are Rules if men have forgotten how to hunt?
Determined to find a single man who would be more interested
in parties and snuggles than calves and protein feed, I tried
a different tack to the Rules. I decided to go direct.
I
asked three friends to trawl their six degrees of separation
to find me a man. He only had to meet a short list of
criteria: He had to be an Adonis, emotionally available, life
passionate, humorous and rich. And single (!) I added as a
reluctant afterthought but essential nonetheless.
After
months ensconced in my castle tower looking wistfully to the
horizon, my prince still did not appear. Not even a hint of a
date materialized. So I revisited my list and offered to
settle for a man who met at least one of the criteria.
Big
mistake. I got a series of men all meeting one of the
criteria, but woefully lacking in others. I got my Adonis but
he was more than one sandwich short of a picnic. I got the man
who was emotionally available to the point where I became more
counselor than companion. I got a man so passionate about
life he would risk it in order to appreciate it more. The
comedian who showed up in a grotty shirt to take me to dinner
was given a quick heave-ho, and the rich man, whoa. The rich
man got rich in the first place by not spending a cent. If his
treatment of the restaurant bill is anything to go by, he’s
going to be rich for the rest of his life.
In
frustration, I screwed up the list altogether and screamed
"Forget the list! ANY man will do!"
Uh-oh,
the first sign of country-induced singleton-madness: lowering
standards. I have already lowered my standards in so many
other aspects of my life – it's the trade-off for having an
internal laundry and room to swing a cat.
It
was enough that I’d already made supreme compromises in
coffee, withdrawing altogether when it took me a year to
convince the local café that instant coffee is so called
because there is only one instant where it reminds one of
coffee.
But
I wasn’t about to compromise in my love life as well.
Lowering standards in order to experience some loving,
that was going too far.
Throwing
out the Rules, my list and my penchant for good coffee, I
clenched my fist and reclaimed my Empowered Woman. I made a
conscious decision to embrace my single life and the backyard
that comes with it.
In
doing so, I have said good-bye to city life, my tiny Sydney
dog-box I called home, and all the saggy butts and fig-eaters
I can handle. But, each day when I swing my cat around my
laundry or take Missy Moo on her daily walk to the beach,
these simple pleasures remind me it's all worth it.
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