Article: Dorothy Black from women24
Image: True Love

Oh how the hormones fly, practically flinging themselves in the face of any vaguely attractive man. Or woman really. Raging hormones don't discriminate after a few glasses of cheap cab sauv. Which has started raising many questions about what is appropriate for us single thirty-somethings. Which got me thinking about Goldilocks and her porridge problem.

Imagine if you will, for a moment, that Goldilocks is me, and the forest, The Forest of Sexual Pleasure (and on a grander scale, Love and Intimacy).

You remember the scene –

When Goldilocks saw the porridge, she remembered that she was very hungry. First, she tried the big bowl of porridge, but it was too hot. Next, she tried the medium bowl of porridge but it was too cold. Last, she tried the porridge from the smallest bowl and it was just right. And she ate it all up.

And there it is.

Every bowl of porridge I have tasted since my foray into the Dark Forest of Sex and The Single Thirty-Something and into the House of Socially Correct Bears has proven itself fraught with lumps and temperature issues – too hot, too cold, too young, too old; too sick, too mean, too hard core, too clean; too nice, too rude, too callow, too crude...

Oh, for the porridge that is just right.

You see, much like Goldilocks, I lack a sense of social etiquette and norm and I assume that if I just keep tasting around I'm bound to find a porridge I like. But how long do you hold out for that deliciously smooth, temperature-perfect bowl of Tasty Wheat when you're finding perfectly ok Jungle Oats along the way – starchy and tasteless, maybe, a little on the tepid side perhaps, but porridge nevertheless.

Is it worth hoping searching till you find that partner that's just right and risk wandering the forest hungry and alone for the rest of your life, or do you settle for someone that is almost just right. We know what Goldilocks did. But lets face it: It is a fairytale.

I discussed this problem with one of my oldest and dearest spit sisters (we've kissed an inordinate amount of the same men). What are the norms involved in the matter of eating porridge? Should convention be followed? Is there a convention? And if so, what is it? Is it ok at this socially advanced age to still be wondering around the forest, walking into all manner of houses and taste-testing strange porridge when we should instead be thinking about knitting booties like Mother Hubbard? And when presented with a porridge that is only almost right is it ok to hold out for that bowl of porridge that might be just right?

Anyway.

Since we share the same sort of world view on sex and love, we naturally consoled each other with a lot of 'following your own heart', 'living for the moment' and 'getting to know one self' platitudes. Taste the fruit of love, we toasted; long live the free woman, we laughed.

Yes we were merry.

But it was Sunday and the sky had started clouding over.

Gosh, wouldn't it be nice to go to a house that belonged to me, we both sighed. Wouldn't it be lov-er-ly to cuddle down with The Man and watch a movie, we hummed.

I remember a scene from a Sex in the City episode, where that Carrie chick discusses – in that tidy little summary of life at the end of each episode – that maybe the search for Mr Right was futile, and that instead, the point was to find Mr Right-For-Now. A valid thought I think. But then, why do so many Mr Right-For-Nows have to be so like the wrong porridge all the time.

Do you share Dorothy's sentiments? Tell us what your sex life is like now that you've reached your thirty-something summit.