Since I last wrote, I have acquired two new pieces of evidence–in case anyone needed it–that the universe is conspiring to keep me eternally celibate.
First, the other night I was walking to meet to friends for dinner when I passed a cute young Brit standing outside an Irish Pub and looking rather lost. As I walked by, he stopped me and asked if I knew of a good local dive bar; I directed him, he said “thanks” and went on his way. Readers, he barely even waved.
Then, yesterday–conveniently, on the same day I post that HuffPost blog linking to my Twitter page–my Twitter account is hacked so profoundly that all day I was inadvertently sending “direct messages” to my Twitter followers announcing that I am 24 and horny and would like to continue the, presumably illicit, conversation on IM. I’m not even exaggerating.
It’s in moments like these that I recall the sage words of a good friend in Washington, after reporting that she had, again, slept with an ex-boyfriend who both of us knew was about as dateable as John Edwards.
“I know, I know,” she said, in good-humored anticipation of my scolding. “But at least,” she went on, “I’ve gotten rid of the Desperation Stench.”
She did not need to explain. But, for you more well-adjusted monogamist readers, I will. This scent as something like a dog whistle: perceptible only to members of the opposite sex (and, apparently, certain social media networks) and occurring in men and women who have gone several months without intimacy.
We all know how it works: you’re in a relationship, unavailable and therefore desirable. When you’re actually single and looking to date, no one wants to talk to you. If you’ve been single for more than a few years, forget about it: I don’t care if you look like Blake Lively and dress like Tara Reid–nobody is interested. It is the cruel Catch-22 of dating: if you’re available, you might as well smell horrible.
So what are us single folk to do about this, short of resigning ourselves to a lifetime of pets, baking and chastity? Go around sleeping with slutty ex-boyfriends?
This is not something I would like to condone on the Internet–or, as a matter of fact, do. But really, I don’t know the alternative. If I did, I would be enjoying this beautiful morning by going on a run with my boyfriend and medium-sized mutt instead of standing in my kitchen, drinking bad coffee and writing this blog in my pajamas.