Wednesday, March 9, 2011

He Loves Me Not

I loitered on my couch the other night in boy shorts and no shirt, shoveling peanut butter, mayonnaise and Dorito sandwiches down my throat, and three things occupied about thirty-seven seconds of solid thought. First, my association for mayo and depression really must stop. Second, Joan Rivers categorically needs to be back ON the red carpet and kick that dumb bitch Ryan Seacrest off her platform heels, and lastly, I would like a man to literally fall into my lap. The idea of love, in all its abhorrent anatomies, has started upsetting me the past several months. I am twenty-eight years old and have refused to fall in love – between the time spent doing my hair and figuring out the inner-workings of water retention in my body, I couldn't find the time. If I wasn't so impressed with my appearance, this no-hearting past would chap my ass. Today, I don't have love, yet what you don't have you covet, and since I cannot play the Santa or priest role, no man will fall into my proverbial lap to claim my heart or cop a feel. After my last birthday in August, I decided to alter my Facebook relationship status. I concocted a very competent, strategic plan to achieve this goal of love: delete my MySpace account because its ad revenue tracked too poorly for my standards and acquire a man before Guy Fawkes Day.

After I remembered I never had a MySpace account, I immediately instigated an audit of other social networking and/or dating sites on which to find Mr. Right. Since eharmony.com hates homosexuals and Grindr's talent only includes iPhone whores, I narrowed it down to Craigslist and Match.com. While Craigslist had a lot going for it like penis shots and retarded power bottoms, Match won the day. Speaking of Craigslist, is it odd that I used to scan the listings, memorizing faces and ball sacks on the off chance that should I make their acquaintance I could head for the nearest police station?

The profile process on Match is daunting. I am usually accustomed to people judging me based on seeing me in person, drunk, so this endeavor to verbally "sell" myself like a cheap cup of semen was a little intoxicating and worrisome. Yes, this profile would need to transform my bitter, cynical personality into one of sincerity, niceness and depth, and I couldn't necessarily stand on looks or hair alone. Naturally, I squirmed. The next day at work, I canceled my afternoon meetings, popped two Xanax and tuned my iPod to ABBA. I find that combination most conducive to the creative writing process. After a couple of hours and a few reviews by my direct supervisor, I sputtered into the "In Your Own Words" field:

"Looking for something serious...but I don't take myself too seriously

The headline space isn't long enough to hold a Julia Roberts plot where I find a great guy in an irreverent mix of comedy, but that's what I wanted to say. It defines my personality and how I live my life. I enjoy a little levity mixed with my sincerity. But, don’t get me wrong. I’m a sweetheart, and I would love to tell you why.

I was born and raised in the South, and I hold courtesy and respect values very near to me. I live in NYC now, and it amazes me that people refuse to hold the door open for others or let a few little old ladies off an elevator first. I remain very close with my family. I still call my parents "Mama" and "Daddy." As I've gotten older, I (frighteningly) see so much of myself in my parents. I'm tender-hearted yet to-the-point like my mother, with a healthy dose of vanity. Resembling my father, I'm driven, devoted and loyal to a fault. When I left the roost, I attended the University of Georgia, and majored in Advertising and English (after a brief stint in Architecture). Once I graduated, I did the damndest thing – I got a job in my degree field, Advertising, and I’ve been in the industry ever since.

That's my background, but I apologize for the parent-talk. Today, I am a study in clichés. I do tend to love those gay stereotypes. Fashion is imperative, and good, smart design can take my breath away. My dream career mirrors a life stylist of sorts – interior decorator, architect, artist, sculptor, and personal stylist, all bankrolled by innovative clients. NYC for a Southern boy like me is a dream, and I'm so glad I'm here. Without going on and on and making you read too much, I must start a little list of likes (afterall, we need to give you time to respond to me): I am as well-groomed as a show dog; I am known for my cartoonish, pompadour hair; I do say things like "OMG" and "btdubs;" I believe I am too tall by 2 inches; I tend to multi-task and never rest, yet relaxation is what I strive for; I can't pick one Golden Girl to be – I'm all four, carrying each of their attributes on my padded shoulders; I adore raunchy teenage comedies; I'd like to think I'm fairly witty; I’m not religious because it hurts my head to think about it; however, hearing "Amazing Grace" make me cry; my sometimes shyness can come off as aloofness.

Let's leave my clichés and talk about what gets me. I am looking for a delightful, intelligent man that ultimately accepts me for me…the good, the bad and the early morning. A man that is confident in himself, and secure in and loyal to our relationship. A man with style. A man that has passion to complement mine and a strong sense of humor for his friends and peers, but saves the best lines for me. I ask for honesty and self-respect. I admire a goal-oriented man that I can learn from, that pushes me into new directions I wouldn't have thought possible or enjoyable.

I want to fall in love with this man every day."


With the biographical vignette written, I uploaded my best Facebook pictures so that onlookers could reconcile my terrible personality with someone approaching attractiveness. My bullshit goes a long way if I look pretty. If you've been on Match, you’ll agree that it might as well be sponsored by the ASPCA because about 77.9 % of those guys look like they just staggered out of a kennel. And, that kennel could possibly be tied to Michael Vick. Despite the canine conundrum, I turned off "Dancing Queen," took two Excedrin to re-caffeinate my body from the Xanax lows and hit the submit button.

All of my hard work paid off. I have gotten nothing but positive responses from fifty-seven-year-old balding men from Iowa.

To be continued...

1 comment:

  1. turn the computer off and step away for a few days...You'll be surprised what might be waiting on the other side!

    ReplyDelete