One of my girlfriends thinks the worst part of being single is sleeping in a big, pretty bed with no man to warm her tootsies. Another says it’s the holidays, when nosy relatives butt into her romantic life and worry about her shriveling ovaries. But to me, there’s something more demoralizing, more torturous than any other trial single women must endure.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Nothing says, “you’re alone, you childless monster from Hell” like the modern grocery shopping experience. Even the shopping list itself is a hideous reminder of your solitary fate: One breast of chicken. One stick of butter. One can of lonely ass soup.