I recently went to see the movie “What’s Your Number?” with Anna Faris who stars as Ally Darling, a woman who becomes self-conscious of her number of sex partners after reading a well accredited poll that proposed most woman who have been with over twenty men have a little to no luck getting married. After she runs into one of her ex-loser boyfriends (who is now successful, married and charming) she decides to track down all her ex’s in hopes of finding love without surpassing the ominous number “20”.

This brings the question to many females
now dwelling on their number of intimate encounters:
how much is too much?

Times are different now, as we know the rules have changed. Personally I don’t have the patience or the will power to wait for some guy, who I want, to summon the courage to ask me out, knowing full on he may never grow the balls. Most men won’t take a gamble when they’re wagering rejection. The funny thing is, we have grown so accustomed to the not-to- subtle hints that make up the rules of the dating game, its instinct.

We know when we’re wanted with as little as a look, whether it’s a double take (some poor souls even triple take), there’s the longing gaze, the oops—she caught me staring I better pretend I was looking at the ceiling–very sad, by the way, the turnabout (where men wait until we walk past them to turn around and admire the work of our gene pool, or just our jeans).

What I’m getting at is that for most females, we know the signs of being desired, and in the 21st century not all of us are willing to wait around for the possibility of nothing when there is a known certainty of something. So what do we do? We go after what we want. Does that bring dirty four letter words to the table in regards to woman being loose, floozy scandals?

Absolutely.

Is it completely unfair there is a standard held in high regards for men and it’s that very same standard that will break a girl’s reputation and label her unfit for dating? Absolutely. So it’s no wonder that there is shame when those not-so-little black books are brought into the light.

Ladies, ask yourself (privately–in your head) “What’s my number?” Do you know it? Now think about how you got there; maybe you have daddy issues, maybe you haven’t found Mr. Right yet and have taken in too many strays off the cold, lurking streets of Ybor (hey, we’ve all been there), or maybe you are just a sexy young thing, living out the “She’s So Unusual” album of Cyndi Lauper, in which case, I salute you.

Regardless of the reason, there is one thing you should always remember: It is nobody’s damn business, but your own. So, my advice? Never tell. Any man (or woman) that needs to know a number that in no way defines you, in order to be with you, is proving a circumstantial relationship at best, and therefore probably isn’t worthy of your practiced and acquired skills anyway.

Society’s standards for what a lady is will forever mirror the conservative and unadventurous, the un-tatted and un-pierced, and those skilled in the useless and unsatisfying ability to “kill with kindness”. This is one-sided, outdated and irrelevant to date. And I think it’s safe to say that when Wal-Mart carries a clothing line pre-sexualizing our youth with tween sensation Miley Cyrus-wear, today’s definition of ‘appropriate’ is in need of drastic reform.

Everyone’s moral compass is going to read a little differently because we all have our own idea of where North is. So create your own set of expectations based only on principles you respect, keep your head high, your standards higher, and remember: this is America, we are all entitled to our own pursuit of happiness, so chase the dream.