When folks inquire why I’m still single, I usually tell them it’s because I’m extremely picky. I know what I want, and I won’t settle for less.
In the past two and a half years, I’ve dated only three women, each stint more brief than the next. The first was verbally abusive and stalked me for six months. The second slept with me for three nights and dumped me in an email. And the third turned out to be a philandering part-time pill popper.
As you can see, I simply will not accept second best. I won’t rest until I hit rock bottom.
Assuming my potential suitors meet or exceed my incredibly high standards of heartlessness, insobriety, and insanity, they then must also measure up in what I’ve taken to calling the Julie Andrews Department. I’ve mentioned my mega-crush on this grand dame of cinema and the Great White Way before, but I didn’t fully explain the gravity of the situation. It is imperative that my girlfriends bear a striking resemblance to the actress’ legendary star turns as either Fraulein Maria or Mary Poppins. A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. And by “medicine” I mean “me.” Ay-oh.
Imagine my dismay when I noticed that the vast majority of women cruising my online dating profile on OkCupid are polar opposites of Julie Andrews. Subtract her cropped blond locks, expressive sapphire eyes and ability to soar with ease over London’s rainy rooftops with the assistance of a chatty umbrella and what’s left is, apparently, an Asian girl.
And Asian girls can’t get enough of me, it seems.
When I first noticed the influx of Asian traffic on my account, I was stumped by this mystery of the Orient. I balked. I resisted. I wouldn’t answer their messages. I bitched to my friends. And they were all, “You’re arbitrarily ruling out a lot of great ladies.” And, “You’re just intimidated by their superior math and science skills.” And, “YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF FOR BEING A TERRIBLE RACIST.”
You guys. That isn’t fair. Just because I like my women like I like my edelweiss – small and white – doesn’t make me a racist.
OK, fine. It kind of does. But I think we all can agree it’s totally Julie Andrews’ fault that I don’t want my lady fingers anywhere near a bento box.
In an attempt to overcome my apparent rampant racism, after a witty email exchange I finally acquiesced and agreed to a first date with Janice, a 37-year-old native of Guam.
As far as a date with someone I knew I wouldn’t be attracted to goes, everything was fine. It wasn’t all that bad. That is, until she dropped two bombs: She has a 16-year-old son. And she’s allergic to cats. I’m not sure which is worse. Sometimes this blog just writes itself.
In many ways, I was relieved. Because those deal-breakers? They meant I had good reason to be turned off not just by her lack of a four-octave vocal range and inability to sew unsightly curtains into play clothes. I was equally put off by her live-in teenage boy and her body’s tragic intolerance of Teva and Isabel.
Yes, that’s right – I wasn’t rejecting her because of her race. I was rejecting her as a person.
Look how far I’ve come.
In spite of my progress, I’m reverting back to my choosy and vaguely prejudiced ways. There’s something to be said for knowing what you want. If I want Julie Andrews, I should have Julie Andrews. Except she’s 75. And straight. And has been married for more than 40 years to her husband, Blake Edwards. Lucky bastard. But I have to believe there’s at least one girl out there somewhere who measures up in the Julie Andrews Department.
Here’s hoping my patience pays off. In the most delightful way.