Mondays serve several purposes. Starting the week, ending the weekend, robbing us of the will to live, etc.

For most, they are a moping ground. Hungover, un-rested and malnourished, they stumble into work bleary eyed and stupid in the morning glare, unable to communicate with other human beings – pretty standard.

For others, Mondays are a gloating ground. If they’re hungover, they’re probably still a bit drunk from the 500 bottles of champagne they had during the BEST weekend ever which they will talk about until Wednesday.

If they’re not hungover it’s because they have just started a juice cleanse, having spent the weekend at a spa with their new boyfriend Mark who’s literally a billionaire which they will talk about until Wednesday.

Why this battle? Why make miserable Mondays significantly worse by talking about yourself to people who couldn’t care less? Why would you bore them or torture them with your meaningless drivel? WHY?

My professional opinion on this particular sport is that the gloaters are trying to compensate for something, and the mopers are perhaps hiding something glorious, whether that be the stronghold comforts of a relationship which involved a simple weekend filled with movies and takeaways, or the simple pleasure of some time spent alone in the bath eating a pizza.

The gloaters who are allegedly compensating for something are a little more interesting, and makes for much more satisfying, reductive presumption and speculation. Maybe they have no friends and just go to bars getting drunk and annoying people until they can tag along and steal fun stories from them, and secretly live alone, and don’t even have a cat, and genuinely like "Fifty Shades of Grey."

What I have found in recent times is that a common signifying difference in Monday’s womenfolk lies in their relationship status. This weekend, I stayed in with my parents on Friday and Saturday night, drinking gallons of red wine and yelling at episodes of "Revenge" and "The Voice," scoffing profiteroles and passing out in bed before midnight.

This isn’t to say that I didn’t have the option of going out on either of those nights. There were fun things happening, and late nights in pubs and clubs to be had, copious amounts of liquor to be drunk and billions of dollars to be spent.

However, my boyfriend was busy. He was previously engaged with work and early mornings, so I just bailed on my entire social life until he was free on Sunday.

Now, this may sound like an enormous leap backwards for feminism and life in general, but allow me to explain. There is a huge element of practicality here, because he lives in the city, and I live in the suburbs. So if he’s not out, then I can’t crash there and must pay the $40 taxi home. No, thanks.

Also, my backup sleepover options are all single ladies out on the prowl, so if they happen to happen upon a happening, I’m left without a buddy and a bed.

Not to mention the fact that the big event on Saturday night was a fake hen party – that’s right, FAKE – which I could only assume would involve the wearing of phallic costumes and hunting for men. I decided to decline. Although I am told they ended up dancing on the bar which I am a little upset that I missed out on.

My Monday smugness comes not from having had a wild weekend with my ladies, crashing around clubs in a little black dress and eating burgers at 4 a.m. Similarly, it does not come from having run a casual marathon and invented a new obnoxious way to consume kale.

It comes from being off the market, out of the race, off the shelf – or on the shelf? – and, generally speaking, not bothered.

I don’t have the stamina for these long nights out, especially in the depths of winter. Summer in New York City was spent staying up until sunrise in a t-shirt on a roof, and it was glorious.

But – and I believe this is crucial – I was single. Single me has the ability to stay out all night, and I’m beginning to realize, somewhat sickeningly, that it’s predominantly a waiting game, hoping to meet somebody or flirt with somebody or, to quote Whitney Houston, to dance with somebody.

Now I go out, and I just want to go home to my somebody and watch cartoons and not wait 45 minutes to order a pint that will subsequently be spilled all over me. Also, I’m sleepy.

Is there a case for this? Do single girls stay out later, and is it because they are single?

This is perhaps a sweeping generalization, and even I have occasionally stayed out past my bedtime when in a relationship – but what are people out there for? Do people genuinely enjoy rubbing up against each other’s sweaty arms in a dark smoky room that much?

Two weekends ago, I ventured to a club, a “new” club that stays open even later than the other clubs – oh hurrah.

We had a solid gathering of 25 people at a friend’s house beforehand which was extremely enjoyable and I could definitely have seen myself spending hours there, and even the party bus we took into the city was hilarious, if a grotesque novelty and also life-threateningly dangerous.

However, as soon as we stepped foot inside that hellish dungeon, I reached for my phone to text my escape route.

No sooner was my sneaking-away plan in place, than two of the other gals shared my expression of terror. Arm in arm, the three of us left the cavern of waste behind.

One has been with her boyfriend for a year and a half, the other with hers for three years. Everyone who stayed behind was single. Just sayin’ ...

I have yet to last beyond 2 a.m. since my relief from the pains of long-distance, so I cannot help but notice the connection between my early nights and dwindling clubbing. Nighttime is for sleeping, among other things. If you’re out late, single, and dying for something to gloat about on a Monday, is that why you aren’t at home in your own bed?