I should author a dating advice column. Imagine the wisdom of a vulgar Ann Landers crossed with a pissed off Dan Savage. Mind you, my advice might be no good, but a misanthropic voice deserves to be heard. Besides, competence is overrated.
As a human being, I consider myself nearly average. And as I continue a personal decline into the inconvenient tedium of single oblivion, you better believe I play the Internet dating game; I have little better to do with my free time. More than five years ago I arrived here in America's interpersonally dysfunctional capital city, just in time to scribble out my e-dating profile and turn 30. I was startled, stunned really, at how effortlessly online dates came to such a mediocre (and at the time unemployed) guy like me. I am told the gender ratio in Washington strongly favors men.
Dear Loser:
Yeah, you'd be surprised how carelessly -- nay, perilously -- indiscriminate DC women can be while chasing the irrational dream of a quality man.
First dates proved a dime-a-dozen, but my few second dates are far between. With little to
offer comes with little to lose, and so I've amassed a growing body of data to reflect upon. A month or two ago, as I perused the online candidates suggested by my preferred outlet, OKStupid.com, I thought I found a winner. This brunette appeared mostly ugly, but not heartbreakingly obese. Put another way: just who I'm looking for. I messaged an introductory hello to my counterpart.
And a couple Fridays ago, after telling some co-workers that I had a date "to meet my future wife," the mother of those kids my boss keeps promising are coming ("One day you're gonna wake up like me; a house in Arlington, married with 3 kids and a minivan"), I set out to tempt, test, and/or torment fate.
Dear Bachelor-for-Life:
Don't ever forget: your flickering hopes for anything resembling a mate rely on understanding and embracing the incongruous truth that your partner will necessarily be deal-breakingly flawed.
I walked to meet my presumptive destiny at a bar close to the Capitol Building to snack on happy hour tater tots and beer, before we continued to a movie at a Smithsonian lining the National Mall. Hong Kong cinema; "I feel smart and sophisticated whenever I have to read subtitles," I had charmingly e-mailed her when suggesting the film.
She arrived minutes after I took a spot at the bar. Wow. Truly, the adjective most commensurate with my escort was "heinous." Think: Danny Devito in a pantsuit. Insensitive yet accurate wisecracks aside, I believe the simple act of meeting my date somehow altered my worldview. But she also had big boobs and I chose to concentrate on the positive, and discount the preponderance of evidence.
Dear Ironically Condescending:
Speaking of large breasts, you've steadily gained weight the last few years. So shut up.
Forcing myself to look directly at her, I tried to send a telepathic message: "OK, now wow me with your personality. We can talk, flirt, laugh, cry, and unearth a genuine human connection. I can flick a light switch." And I swear I tried. I did my best to woo her with my brand of wit, but she was clearly just... not amused. It wasn't so much that she had a "bad" sense of humor as much as she seemed blankly unaware of the concept of "humor." And the truth of the matter is that if I'm comfortable then I'm also outgoing and laughing, and probably doing my best to safely toe the fine line bordering obnoxious.
A big part of me was loving how extraordinarily unattractive she was; I figured I had a good chance with her. But she also asked which was my preferred Smithsonian and explained why her "favorite era of art is the impressionists." I countered with "My favorite TV show is 'Family Guy,'" but it fell flat. She was just not my kind of girl (more to the point, I suppose I'm no good for her type). So the movie ended, we parted ways, and I made a chilly descent on a Smithsonian Metro Station escalator. I was soon home and quickly crossed the street to my favorite horrible dive bar.
Dear Two-Bar Minimum:
It's a lot cheaper to mourn at home over canned beer and YouTube.
I follow up many of these failed dates with a trip to that cramped, windowless hole in the wall where the bartender once accused me of being a "regular" as he waved off the bouncer asking me for ID.
I guess due to the money they save on... everything, the beer is inexpensive to drink while I complain to the usual bartender about women, myself, and the fact that this establishment doesn't serve food. With a confident understanding that no relationship was born that evening, I hopped on a barstool and asked for a bottle of Sierra Nevada. Seconds later that bartender presented my beer and a glass. He never supplies a glass.
Surprised, I asked him, "Don't only classy people drink beer from a glass?"
"And you're a classy guy," he said.
A few minutes later I asked for a Samuel Adams. He traded me Sam for my empty bottle.
"Don't classy people use a fresh glass when they switch to a different beer?" I asked.
"No. They use the same goddamn glass!" he barked.
And so concluded another romantic Friday night in Washington, DC.
Dear District Dater:
You do realize, with each day that you age, the size of your market of quality singles shrinks?