Father's Day was great. The family got together for supper at my parents house with bbq’d steak, salads and carrot cake. The conversations naturally rotated around the usual – baby talk, pregnancy talk, more baby talk, more pregnancy talk. I had pretty much expected it, so I spent some time wandering around trying to find a conversation I fit into. I ended up hanging out with my 3-year old nephew who is heavily into his superhero phase. He was carrying around a foot tall Batman action hero my mother had recently purchased for him. He discussed Batman; I in turn questioned if he knew where I could get a life size one of those with Christian Bale underneath. He thought about it for a minute or two and then looked at me and shook his head, saying, “I’m not sure Kell-O (his nickname for me), I’m just not sure.” Well…I figured it was worth asking anyway.
I went home afterwards and as usual the residual feelings of not quite fitting in anymore settled in. I shook them off, reminding myself ‘things change, roll with it” and popped in a movie to watch. Then the next day at work when everyone was asking ‘so how was your weekend’ etc., I mentioned it was pretty good although I had to dodge a lot of baby/pregnancy talk and try to find bits and pieces of conversation I could actually contribute to. At this point someone piped up with this little tidbit of wisdom:
“Well you know what your problem is?”
No…do tell. (I said with as much wryness as I could muster, which anyone that knows me will tell you, is quite a lot even without a modicum of effort.)
“Your problem is that you need to get out there and get yourself a man.”
So here’s where the rant starts. Would someone please tell me where this godforsaken ‘out there’ is?? I have lost track of all the times I have had this said to me. You just need to get out there. As if it was some specific spot. A designated area for all us poor, misguided single people to congregate and find ourselves a mate. Only problem is, if you actually ask these people for directions to this holy place, they give you this blank look and answer with the oh-so-sage, “You know--out there”.
No, I don’t know! Because I have been out there, and I have yet to find it, so perhaps you could be a little clearer. By out there, do you mean trolling around the bars picking up college guys with barely a brain cell between them? Perhaps I should accost men on the street? Or in the produce section of the local supermarket, maybe sidle up the ones paying particular attention to the firmness of the melons?
“Nooo,” they always answer, “I just mean you need to go out more.”
Except that I do, at least as much as someone working a full-time job and writing on the side can find the time to. I go to movies, I go to bookstores, I sit in coffee shops, I spend time with friends and family, I play sports. I occasionally go downtown, I’ve been to plays, I’ve been set up on blind dates (that’s a whole other rant, let me tell you…), been in group situations, danced the night away. Sometimes I’ll make a brief connection, most times not.
“Well, you’re being too picky.”
Now, let me get this straight then, if I am looking to hook myself up with someone on a permanent basis I shouldn’t be picky? I should just grab whatever’s available and be happy I got anything at all? I should spend the rest of my life settled into mediocrity that will eventually lead to misery?
“Well no, that’s not what I mean. But I’m sure you can find someone nice if you just look.”
“You know…out there.”
Sigh…right…of course…how silly of me.