I’ve been in a relationship for the majority of the time since I was 14 years old. That’s (mumble, mumble) years of serial monogamy, with the occasional overlapping relationship. A girl has to plan ahead, after all.

Since the entire catbox hit the fan at my house in early 2008, I have been single.

At first, I resisted single life. I went on a blind date with a woman that started with her telling me about her amazing relationship with Jesus Christ and ended with her calling me a tramp. No, seriously. Then I tried to negotiate a booty-call arrangement with an old friend/flirtation who I thought would be interested. Yeah, no, and we’re not so much friends anymore, either.

Thanksgiving was a turning point. I stayed home because I felt like it, and because celebrating gluttony and a 20-pound dead bird both kind of gross me out.

Dude, I had the best Thanksgiving of my life. I cooked for the first time in … well, I always had a girlfriend, so the first time in … ever. The meal was pretty bad, to be honest, but I set the dining room table, lit some candles in the candlesticks my grandmother gave me 100 years ago, and thought about all the things I was thankful for. It was fantastic.

I haven’t felt a moment of that “Oh, my goddess, I’ll never find someone!” panic since.

I like my life a lot. I have the usual lesbian petting zoo (five cats, two terriers) running around my house. I just redecorated in a wacky style (hint: chartreuse ball fringe) that is so me, but nothing anyone else would tolerate. And I get to do whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want. It is glorious.

But I’m still on the lookout for that booty call.