Sex and the Capital City is a new bi-weekly column from CultureMap contributor Mikela Floyd.

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About three years ago, I stopped dating. I didn’t have a traumatic incident, nor did I have some sort of asexual epiphany. No, my dereliction of the dating world was of the apathetic variety; a mere “meh” in the face of the awkward situations I had experienced throughout my dalliances in the meat market.

Alas, it's a new year, and I begin it with resolve to change my Cathy-cartoon-like ways.

I wasn’t always so indifferent on the idea of putting myself out there. In fact, like many, I had a serious relationship throughout most of college. And like many, ours was a relationship that didn’t work out. I don’t have ill thoughts of that time, mind you. This was not a one-off that soured me on the whole notion of settling down. I didn’t begin burning bras as soon as the breakup wounds healed.

In fact, once “back in the saddle,” I entertained a number of eligible suitors. There was the Australian reality TV star (a story I may dive into at a later date), the record label employee whose mere acquaintance paid off with free music in spades (when you’re 21, these are the things that matter) and even the occasional revisiting of a high school flame or two.

Nope, I wasn’t completely averse to dating — until I left Austin.

Moving to New York City at the age of 22 can be a terrifying prospect. Moving to New York City at 22 alone? Well, that’s a different ballgame altogether.

Sure, I had interned in the city previously, and my post-grad setup included free co-ed housing provided by my new employer (the same employer who now pays Snooki and The Situation to cohabitate, but I assure you, the digs weren’t nearly as nice in my six foot by six foot room), but I went without a good friend in my midst, doe-eyed and optimistic of my future as a New Yorker.

Fast-forward a few months, and the reality sets in, and how. Sarah Jessica Parker et al glamorized the city’s dating landscape a bit, folks. There were friends of friends, of course (most notably a Northeasterner with a WASPY name and a family bed and breakfast to boot), but as they often do, things fizzled, and before I knew it, I was a non-dater extraordinaire.

Relocation to Los Angeles didn’t exactly help things in terms of singledom. Like many naïve girls before me, I flocked to the City of Angels with idealized dreams of a bohemian lifestyle, determined that my life would be footloose, fancy free, and full of interesting people.

The reality of Los Angeles is that while it boasts a population to rival most third world countries, it has the ability to simultaneously be the loneliest place on earth. Careers are on the brain, instead of crushes; lunch meetings, instead of lunch dates.

You can see now, where I’m going with this. Finding love takes a backseat, and understandably so. Los Angeles isn’t exactly a city known for its crop of fine gentleman, so things didn’t seem to work out there.

But here I am: a serial non-dater, back in my hometown, and facing the tail end of my 20s as the only single gal at the endless barrage of weddings now dominating my social calendar. I may not find the man of my dreams, but I'm ready to at least test the waters.

Join me in this bi-weekly column, where I'll share the insane, hilarious, and hopefully fun experiences I'll have as I try to navigate my way out of Spinster-Town.