The closer I get to thirty, the more I hear Why Aren’t You Married? This question has many variations. Why are you single? Why don’t you have a man? What, no rock? Sometimes the quandaries are compliments; sometimes they are stealth insults, but there is one answer I keep coming back to: “Honey, it’s not me, it’s them.” You know, them ... the bachelors who at first glance appear to be high-achieving, handsome, intelligent, and sane ... unless you have a fine-tuned Red Flag radar. At some point saying “I haven’t met the right guy yet” and “I refuse to settle” became gross understatements. Herein, my A to Z guide:
Mr. A asks me for dates only via text message.
Mr. B calls to make arrangements for a second date, expressing that it’s my turn to pay for dinner and “it better be an expensive place,” referring to my simple love of buttered noodles at The Old Spaghetti Factory.
Mr. C has conversations with himself, something I notice while he is walking up my driveway and I am peering out the blinds to see what the dress code is. Wrinkled acid washed jeans circa 1987.
Mr. D, upon returning from a two week vacation where his ex lives, says he has discovered a bump and fears he may have contracted an STD, probably “from sitting on a dirty toilet seat or something.”
Mr. E tries everything within his power to woo me—flowers, incessant phone calls, the works—then trashes the outside of my house and pages me foul messages when I gently let him down.
Mr. F takes me shopping (for his groceries) on my birthday and calls his mother twice from the bread aisle to ask where to find the loaves with the crusts already cut off.
Mr. G drives a minivan with a toy and lots of crumbs in the back and won’t volunteer his home phone number.
Mr. H has all the makings of a future fat man, embarking on solo post-coital runs to Denny’s for cheese fries and a strawberry shake, or to the convenience store to binge on caramel-corn flavored jelly beans, Snickers, Twinkies, Ding-Dongs, and beer all in one sitting.
Mr. I declares he “has many vaginas thrown at him.”
Mr. J’s computer history reveals such porn sites as Ninth Street Latinas, Wifey’s World, and Becca’s Nails, which require paid subscriptions, but when I order a $10 Grand Marnier margarita he says I’m wasteful.
Mr. K offers that he once French-kissed a man, but doesn’t want to discuss the details for the duration of one very tense road trip.
Mr. L is thirty-two years old with a My Space page, rife with senseless blogs, skanky female friends and photos of his oiled up body.
Mr. M texts me “wanna play hide the carrot?” at 8:00 on Easter morning, two days after our very normal first date, and one day after he called to say he had a really great time.
Mr. N gives his two-year-old nephew the silent treatment after the poor child accidentally chips his Rolex.
Mr. O sulks in a chair in a corner of the room—naked—when I’m still unsure I want to have sex with him after months of dating, then tries to guilt trip his way between my legs.
Mr. P lies and says “I steam-cleaned the carpets and the sheets” so I will spend the night because he truly believes my cat allergies (i.e. wheezing bronchitis) are in my head.
Mr. Q emails me to let me know his ex (the one who lives several states away) will be spending the night at his house and that he totally forgot she will be arriving this evening, two months into our relationship. And he actually expects a reply.
Mr. R dry humps the sh** out of my leg and gets visibly angry after he finds out I won’t have sex on the first, second, or third date.
Mr. S keeps Victoria’s Secret body wash, curlers, and a pink toothbrush (that’s still slightly wet) under his sink and says they belong to his mother who lives more than 1,000 miles away.
Mr. T says pity the fool who sends red roses to a woman—“romance is for sissies.”
Mr. U requires that all of his girlfriends clean up after him and do his laundry using the quarters his mother ships via FedEx because “just he’s too damn busy.”
Mr. V never asks me out on the weekends, only week days. And he’s out of town a whole lot.
Mr. W says if you don’t trust me, here’s the password to my email, then promptly opens another account for all of his women.
Mr. X even lies on his Twitter!
Mr. Z brings his military-assigned weaponry with him everywhere and finds it hysterical when he points an unloaded gun to my head and says, “Say your prayers” Scott Peterson (or is it Drew Peterson?) style.
In a nutshell, this is why I remain single, quite happily. This inevitably begs the question, What possessed you to marry that man? ... and why is he calling me?
