This singles column is ruining my dating life.

From the looks of it, you might think I never dated, was never pursued — maybe that I was allergic to men.

Well, yes, my work schedule is screwy and so is my sleep regimen, which, combined, wreak havoc on the bit of a social life that I do have. But otherwise, my life is a true soap opera, rife with exes, lovers, serendipity, heartache and wild nights.

I just can't tell you about it.

My first dilemma is this: I'm pretty sure my grandma is still a diligent reader. And she's probably told all of her friends at Bible study about “her baby's newspaper thing.” And my mom follows it every now and then, and ..... well, you get the picture.

The last thing I need is a phone call at 6 a.m. asking me about the details of a recent proposal for a threesome (and the couple was willing to pay $1,000. I can just hear my grandma now, “What kind of places are you going to, pumpkin?” and “You didn't do it, did you?”).

I've definitely got to give their devotion time to blow over.

Second dilemma is, I'm kinda, sorta seeing someone. OK, we don't have a title — partly because we don't really believe in them and mostly because he's now an ocean and a few time zones away — but we're in some misshapen, complicated form of a “relationship.”

And as much as neither of us is the jealous type, I'm not sure he'd be too keen on reading about multiple dates or makeout sessions. I conscientiously limit the amount of temptation I'm willing to yield to (or admit to) — and that means fewer juicy exploits for you, the reader, to salivate over.

Third dilemma: A lot of people just don't want a date or encounter to serve as entertainment for the masses. Case in point: I went out with this guy recently and had an absolute blast. It was perfect fodder for a singles column. But, when I asked if I could write about it, he was very leery, even after I promised not to use his name or go into much detail.

And the last time I mentioned in a column that I “just wanted to be friends” with another guy after we met, he stopped calling. He probably read my column; I'm pretty sure he hates me now.

So, short of shifting all of my escapades onto suspiciously numerous Jane and John Does, my hands are tied in many ways. I'd like to tell all of you about the ex who showed up at my doorstep unannounced. Or the really hot Brazilian guy who blocked me in at the gas station so he could ask me to breakfast.

I'd like to tell you about this, and more. I really would. But I can't.