This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 27th, 2008 at 10:00 pm and is filed under General Word Vomit. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.
A problem that wasn’t on my SATs: Consider all the men in the world. Now, narrow that population down to only include eminently datable men: the ones who are available; not on parole; intelligent; creative; reasonably attractive; and not prone to violent outbursts, obsessive jealousy, or fanatical fascination with sports teams or supermodels/porn stars/underage pop tarts. From that group, narrow it down to only include men who would be both interested in and capable of dating me (the key word being “capable”). Finally, from that remaining group, narrow it down to only include men I would be interested in being with. How many men are left standing?
I got -472 the last time I attempted to solve the equation, but my math has always been a bit sketchy. Still, I’ve posed this problem to several friends and received similar answers. Hope is certainly the last thing that comes to my mind at this point.
It’s not that I’m so furiously interested in dating, but I admit I am somewhat dreading my future. As a (married) friend pointed out recently, despite all comfort in being independent and alone, it is still exhausting to be single.
The worst part is all the discussion and explanation. My arithmetic problem has become my standard answer to the dreaded, “So, why aren’t you seeing anyone? You’re a smart, attractive woman.” It’s a better answer than what I’d like to say: “Funny, I was just wondering how on earth you’re NOT single, but had the grace to keep it to myself.”
Frankly, the fact that I am smart and attractive essentially kills my odds anyway. If I’m not fending off jerks who consider catcalls and expletive-laced e-mails an appropriate form of courtship, then I’m wasting my breath trying to convince “geeks” that they aren’t as out of my league as they think.
Then, when I actually do plan an outing with a man who doesn’t offend my lofty sensibilities and who has a moderate grasp of Emily Post’s common courtesies, something invariably trips me up. Like the fact that his ambition (which initially seemed so attractive) rules his life and requires six-month advance planning for future outings. Or that he’s so wracked with issues from his divorce that he winds up fetal before the night is over.
It’s bad enough having to contend with these issues while on the date; having to relate them to well-intentioned questioning friends and family after the fact is even more painful. More often than not I tend to just not tell people when I go out anymore. Still, even I succumb to stupidity from time to time and recently let slip to my father that I had made plans with a guy one weekend.
“Well, that’s great news!” he said. “Let me get your mother on the phone.”
Since he ignored my shrill screams of, “Please god, nooooooo,” I was forced to hang up the phone before she could pick up and e-mail him later to say my phone had been disconnected, indefinitely. The last thing I needed was to spend five hours answering questions like, “What does he do?” and “Another musician? Why can’t you find a nice guy?”
It didn’t matter. I had said too much already, and my father spent the next week excitedly spreading the word to my entire family that I had “found a new man.” Predictably, the date was a bust and I then had to divert the swell of “whys” to my blog.
If this is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life, there is a good chance I may fall victim to the crazy cat lady syndrome. When the only thing that seems to add up in my personal life is my misanthropy, is there really any other option?