I stumbled in the door a moment ago and threw off my boots. The intoxicated walk home up the hill did a number on my feet. I opened the fridge door and pulled out the first couple of items calling my name. Oh shredded cheese and tortillas, how I love you. Just as I lit the stove to get to work on my quesadilla, my phone went off. It was Karen. “You make it home alive?” her text said.
Three and a half years ago, I moved to the burbs – a bold transition to a land I once envisioned as being my savior in being inhabited by men with family values – you know, the settling down type. I had come from a land of city dwelling men, riddled with Peter Pan Syndrome and seemingly all with a touch of ADHD. This same land was traversed by athletic, educated, beautiful vixens, double in number to the male population. I dubbed these vixens my mortal enemies.
I had come from a land of city dwelling men, riddled with Peter Pan Syndrome and seemingly all with a touch of ADHD.
Night after night my single gal pals and I would hit the town. Day after day I’d primp myself for the daytime look. Whether it be baseball game, concert in the park, beach day, or a San Francisco favorite, hangover brunch, my mind was on the man hunt. I was in the game and in it to win it.
After what seemed like a lifetime and many drunken taxi rides home feeling defeated, I decided to think about hightailing it out of this land I’d probably assimilated all too well into.
Here’s how I did my location scout research: Step 1. think of “burby” slower paced place, Step 2. Does it have mountains and water?, Step. 3. What are the men like?
It is in this third step that I applied rigorous, diverse journalistic skills. I delved into Match.com. I plugged in the zip codes of my trial cities and checked out the men.
When they say hindsight is 20/20, mine is like x-ray vision. I am a marketer and I basically sold myself the story that I would find an athletic, family man with a great silicon valley type job here. I fell for it hook, line and sinker.
I wanted to believe the story I sold myself was true.
Turns out I moved to a city where 21 and under and 45 and over have the biggest singles population. Oh and there are also more females than males, so I didn’t do myself any favors there. Factor in that only a small portion of the age range I fall under are single and add to that a large percentage consider surfing a number one priority, believe being able to get paid just enough to float rent in a shared household is a sweet deal, and typically fall under the grow weed, sell weed or smoke weed category.
After three and a half years of attempting to adapt to my new environment, albeit passes the mountains, water and athletic men criteria, I found myself proclaiming to Karen earlier tonight, “Sometimes I feel like I’m wasting my hotness!”
Sometimes I feel like I’m wasting my hotness!
At this she laughed. I laughed. We cheersed. Then I bawled.
Three plus years of getting dressed up for Italian dinners only to find my date in a Bob Marley t-shirt and flip flops or to have him forget his wallet or end the date prematurely on an urgent need to meet his weed cutters. What is a girl to do if this is the population of suitors?
Two cities down and it would seem I’m not winning. Add to that my hotness is waning.
And so it is I’m determined to do better research with my next move. I’m also determined to let the game go. To let the idea of winning go. I’m going to focus on the things I can control to keep myself happy and healthy. After all, that’s all I really can do. Hotness be damned!
Happy and healthy is the new hotness!
Can you relate? Have you had similar experiences? How about the guys out there? Has anything like this happened to you? I’d love to hear from you. Please reply in the comment section below.