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August 08, 2005

natural selection

I take my usual walk at lunch and see that it’s raining. Or rather that it has been raining; it’s the tag-end of a shower but people still have their umbrellas up or are covering their heads with whatever is handy: newspaper, a purse, a handkerchief. I am behind a woman who is having a loud, angry conversation on a cell phone. “Oh, and now we ain’t together you don’t give a fuck about your children?” She sounds furious—and who can blame her?—and I give her a wide berth.

Yesterday, for interest, I took the classified personals section out of the Sunday newspaper and sat down with it and a pen. I thought I’d see what’s out there. Who’s out there. Who’s out there and advertises being out there. First I crossed out all the listings in Maryland—too far away. Then I crossed out all the 20-something’s ads. Then I crossed out all the older-than-60-something’s ads. Then I crossed out all the Asian men’s ads. Then I crossed out all the too-specific ads (“prefer redheads”). Then I crossed out all the ads from men who want a soul mate, a best friend, a partner on life’s path, someone who reads the Bible. Then I crossed out the ads from men who are “into working out” (uh huh). Then I crossed out all the ads from men who love “long walks at sunset” and “cooking” and “evenings by the fire” and who want to treat me “like a queen” but who would prefer that I not have children.

That left me with four ads, and I had to cross one of those out—actually one of the more promising ones—because when I unfolded the paper I discovered that I had inadvertently crossed into the “Women Seeking Women” section.

When I get back from my walk I go to the lunchroom and talk to people about meeting potential mates. I hear a story about a woman who met her husband when he dialed a wrong number—it just happened to be hers. I hear a story about somebody who met his girlfriend when his friends put his profile on a singles’ site for a joke. I hear a story about a girl who met her boyfriend at a bar and he walked her home after they “made out.” I tell them the story about my OB/GYN, who met her husband by advertising for somebody to go to the opera with her.

I met my first husband in eighth grade. When I was 28 I asked him to marry me. As I recall, I said “Please can’t we get married?” and he said “-K.”

I was my second husband’s boss for a while. I tried to have him fired because he was never on time and always had ridiculous excuses. He proposed to me. He told me he knew the first time he saw me that he’d marry me; I only wish his powers had extended a little bit farther into the future.

I think about making the effort. Going out to dinner, for drinks. The “get to know you” conversations. I wonder if it’s possible to date without caring one way or the other, which seems like the ideal situation. Maybe I should make up my own ad. “Slightly jaded, good conversationalist. I promise not to like you too much, or even at all, if you prefer. Let’s just say right from the start we know this won’t go anywhere.”

Posted by JudyLa at 02:00 PM | Comments (0)