The other day, I shocked myself into a state of comatose when I asked my friend's sister a question I never thought I'd ask another woman:

"So... are you seeing anyone special at the moment??"

I nearly choked on my lukewarm sausage and onion sandwich. Mortified at what had come out of my mouth (and later, morified at what I had put into it), the world suddenly went into slow motion as I noticed her reaction.

Her head twitched just slightly to the left... her eyes widened as her gaze momentarily dropped to the floor.

I panicked.

"Oh no!... NO!... don't answer it! I can't beleive I just asked you that - plead the 5th - PLEAD THE 5TH!!!!" I begged of her - feeling the blood rush from my head.

I guess as my dad used to say -

I felt like a silly sausage.

Of course, she thought I was an idiot and I didn't blame her. With a looming silence filling the room - overwhelming the smell of babies, napies and gossiping young mothers - she braveley volunteered a response:

"No... No I'm afraid. Haven't quite met anyone yet".

*ooops*

It reminded me of a time, all them years ago, when I was groupie and hanging out backstage at the Bob Dylan concert. My friend and I were young and impressionable... and welcomed to join a very strange looking man with a name I had forgotten for dinner in the VIP tent.

We didn't know him - all we knew was that he was a tall, UFO-like man with tight leather pants, piercing blue eyes and long, black matted hair.

But Maree hadn't forgotten his name... and in hindsight... I wish I hadn't forgotten it either.

For, during a break in the conversation, as he slurpped away on his spagetti... his watery eyes scowering our young, impressionable figures... she says with trepidation:

"So Mr Simons... I hear you once played bass - for a band called 'The Kiss'???"

He pauses in between a forkfulls of fettucini and pasta to glance towards his laughing entourage and murmer:

"Yeah, something like that"

We later found out:

it was Gene Simmons.

In a strange way, it appeared to excite him. The anonymity...the possible discretion of posing to be a nobody with his revolting long tounge urging to find it's way towards our vibrant, young selves. He watched us with sheer delight; finishing his dinner, taking a long sip of bourbon and placing two things on the table;

his empty glass;

and an offer we could refuse.

So anyway, turning from the exciting rockstar back to the BBQ - I felt terrible about asking her the dreaded question that (ask Bridget Jones tells us): all singles girls dread.

Seeing anyone special?

What am I? A war widow... a ninny??  I left the room on the premise that I was getting another sausage just to escape the calamity I had inflicted upon this poor, nearly 30 year old woman.

But it got me thinking.

Was it really that bad? I mean... why did I feel so guilty? It was like I had asked a blind person to tell me the time... or a fat person for tips on how to lose weight.

Was it the wrong thing to ask?

Days later, I had dinner with my nearest & deareast girlfriends. I told them of my 'special' comment, as surprisingly, they shook their heads and demanded:

"Snap out of it! - who cares?"

"We were all single once"

And it was true.

Every young woman, has at some point in their lives, been single.

There are those who have fought... flirted and fornicated our ways to Mr Right. And those who have sleezed, snuck and shimmied his way.  Whatever the case may be;

there's no point tredding lightly when there's an Elephant in sitting room (or in my case, the lounge room).

So I stopped indulging in my guilt and let the balloon of humilitation fly. I realised that being hypersensitive towards a tempestuous, slightly jaded single woman is not the way to go. That for those of us who have braved the cold, cruel world of dating and come out on top (or the bottom, depending on which you prefer);  being single should never be a dirty word. 

Rock & Roll all night.

Nasty.