Thursday, 4/10/97
Singled out now, hopeful for future
Even when the possibilities look grim, never settle for someone
you don’t love
I’m single. It’s hard to believe, I know, but even my No. 1 fan,
John Yi, will tell you it’s true: "Judging from the ludicrous
content of Ms. Tom’s insulting article, it is no wonder she spends
Valentine’s Day alone." Ouch, hurt me. For the record, I did not
spend Valentine’s Day alone, but with the people who really matter:
my dear friends, some drunken fans, and the friendly bartenders of
Westwood, who serve up the sweet elixirs that make my sad, lonely
life marginally bearable. John, John, John! Don’t you understand
that being single has nothing to do with one’s level of
attractiveness or desirability?
Crazy people, ugly people, really screwed up people are able to
find other crazy, ugly and screwed up people to be with. Look at
serial killers. These are people who never lack for dates on
Valentine’s Day. And conversely, there are perfectly lovely people
who are completely unable to find that special someone. Mostly
because of the hordes of crazy, ugly, screwed up people out
there.
So, why am I terminally single? Some might say it’s because of
my tendency to get inappropriately drunk in public on first dates
and challenge complete strangers to impromptu wrestling matches by
grabbing them in a headlock. Sometimes I "accidentally" get carried
away and I catch them in mid-swallow, forcing them to spew beer out
their nose (and we all know what a painful experience that can
be).
And then, when security kicks me out of the bar, I’ll scream
obscenities that would make a sailor blush for a good half hour.
And when my date is finally able to convince me to leave, I may or
may not vomit in his car on the way home. That’s the fun part about
going out with me: you never know what will happen next.
Other people will tell you I’m single because of my need to talk
for hours on end about myself, and how great I am, without pausing
for breath or feigning even the slightest interest in what anyone
else has to say. Still others may point to my pathological
inability to remain faithful to anyone for any period of time that
exceeds 48 hours. And finally, there are those that will tell you
that no man will ever be able to compete with my first, and only,
true love … alcohol.
While these are all very salient points, none of them is the
real reason for my chronic singleness.
I’ll tell you the truth.
It may sound crazy, but I believe that somewhere out there is a
guy who will be able to look at all my rowdy, drunken escapades,
and sassy, insouciant wit, sometimes offensive sense of humor and
love me not in spite of these things, but rather, because of
them.
And even though he will necessarily be gorgeous, tall, and
scathingly brilliant, with nice teeth and a winning personality,
and funny, and good in bed, and he’ll also have a great job and a
nice car, and, where was I going? Oh, yeah. Despite all this, he
too will have flaws, and I will be able to take his imperfections
in stride.
The important thing to remember is, never settle. Never, never,
never: not even when it looks like all hope is lost, and you’re
going through so many batteries a day that the Energizer bunny
starts looking good to you. Be strong. Be picky as hell. I hate
reading magazines like Cosmo when a girl writes in and says
something like,"There’s this guy who likes me, but I just don’t
find him attractive. He’s really nice, but he’s bald, and I like
men with hair. I’ve tried to look past the baldness, but I just
can’t. Also, he has no teeth. What should I do?"
And Cosmo always gives the following advice, "Get over yourself.
Who do you think you are? This guy sounds like a gem. Try wearing a
push up bra and lots of cheap perfume and cook him an elaborate
meal of honey roasted veal chops with glazed baby carrots (recipe,
p. 146 ). A good man is hard to find, so just grab the first thing
that comes along." No, no, a thousand times, no! Repeat after me.
It is better to be alone than to force an attraction for anyone. No
one ever tells you to settle for a lousy job, or a crappy
apartment. So if he’s not your cup of tea, give it up, it’s never
going to happen. Don’t worry about hurting his feelings. He’ll
live. This is why people think I’m bitchy; because I believe in my
heart of hearts that men are capable of fending for themselves.
There is no accounting for taste. You could literally be going
out with George Clooney, and if he doesn’t turn your kabobs, well,
frankly, I have no idea what’s wrong with you, but the mental
illness from which you clearly suffer is probably a permanent
condition. George is going to have to go. And while you’re at it,
could you slip him my number? Listen, you can tell the producers of
"ER" for me that successful format, Emmys and critical acclaim
aside, you could produce that show as a French existentialist play,
penned by an Englishman, and call it "Waiting for George Clooney,"
because as far as I’m concerned, that’s what "ER" is. If the
character of Doug Ross existed in reality, (and that would be
reality as we collectively perceive it, not reality as it plays out
in my drug-ravaged mind) I would actually physically maim myself
given the small chance that he would then have to operate on me.
I’m a sick human being.
But I digress. When the girl in the movies picks Pheobus over
Quasimodo, or Ethan Hawke over Ben Stiller, there’s always a group
of guys in the audience who protest: "Girls are shallow; nice boys
finish last." Dorky boys think there is no greater crime than a
girl’s inability to look past their physical shortcomings and love
them for the wonderful people they are inside. Unfortunately, they
want that girl to be Winona Ryder. They’re not interested in the
quirky little hunchbacked girl with the heart of gold.
I’m going to get a little sentimental now, so brace yourselves.
I don’t make myself vulnerable very often, so it makes sense that I
would express some of my deepest, most private emotions in the
school paper, since you and I both know that no one’s ever read
this far into my painfully long columns. Painfully funny some might
say. So what if I have to pay them? Mind your own business.
Nobody’s making you read this, you know. Anyhow, one of these days,
when I’m a mature human being who’s ready for a healthy
relationship, (And, let’s face it, it’s not today, but I know I’ll
find this guy.) I might not realize it’s him at first. Something
about him is going to stick in my mind, some endearing little quirk
of personality or demeanor. And when I know I’ve found him, I’ll
turn to him and say, "What took you so long?" And he’ll turn right
back and say, "I was waiting for you."
But then, sometimes I think to myself, is there anyone on the
planet that I wouldn’t kill with my own bare hands for the
opportunity to spend even 15 naked minutes with George Clooney?
OK, OK, people, back to the column. I’ve lost track of where I
was, and now everything’s all crazy. I’m still single, and there’s
more! See, I don’t like people very much. Jean Paul Sartre once
said, "Hell is other people." Actually, what he said was,"L’enfer,
c’est les autres." (He was French.) Jim Morrison voiced it somewhat
differently when he said, "People are strange." Either way, I
agree. So I have this perfect, romantic vision of Mr. Right that is
completely at odds with human nature as I know it. Have you been to
the bars lately? Have you seen what’s out there? Westwood is
nothing but chuckleheads and yahoos. (I don’t even know what that
means, I just like the sound of it.) And we’re not even talking
about the real psychos here, the ones you don’t know about until
you’re living together and one day they just snap.
But none of this concerns me. Because I meet a lot of people. A
lot. Last year I went on about 30 first dates. I only went on maybe
10 second dates, three third dates, and it all went downhill from
there. People expose their inherent weirdness pretty quickly. It’s
so strange to see them make that crucial decision to abandon the
act and reveal their "true" personality. You want to take them
aside and say, "Was all that good stuff an act? Because you might
want to keep up the sham for as long as you can. Trust me, this
‘real you’ is not working out." That’s why I’m totally obnoxious
from the get go. Because I don’t believe in false advertising.
And the added bonus of being honest to the point of cruelty on
that first date is that two dates later, when he’s pouring out some
sordid tale of childhood trauma and you’re so bored that you
actually contemplate faking a seizure to avoid hearing one more
word of his bitter recollections, you can yell out some really
bitchy remark, like,"Shut up you moron, I don’t care that your
parents don’t love you, trust me, I can understand where they’re
coming from," and it will be entirely in character! I can’t tell
you how many times I have had to use that little speech …
I want the first date magic to last forever. I want him on his
best behavior, trying to impress me. But first dates lead to second
dates, and second dates eventually lead to hour-long misty-eyed,
hand-holding confessionals, and I just don’t have the patience,
time, or inclination to be your shrink. So, what’s a girl to do?
Date new people, and generate first date magic with them. People
say I’m a cynic, but maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic, still
believing in those brief, heady moments when touches are still
electric and kisses leave you breathless.
But I’m not worried. Despite the fact that every newspaper,
magazine and movie tells me that if I don’t get my act together
right this second, 15 years down the line, I’m going to end up on a
cruise ship at a singles’ mingle, picking a fist fight with three
other women over the only guy on board who no longer lives with his
parents. I’m not worried.
Despite the fact that at 22, with some of my friends talking
about marriage, I have a hard time committing to dinner at eight.
I’m not worried. Despite the fact that I went to the bars the other
day, and this is what some guy said to me: "Don’t I know you from
somewhere? Oh, I’m not hitting on you, I swear. I don’t even find
you that attractive."
And in spite of the fact that I went to the bars the other day,
and some other guy had this to say: "I’d offer to light your
cigarette, but I’m afraid of fire. That’s pretty wimpy huh? I
probably shouldn’t have said that. Are you laughing at me?" I’m not
worried. OK, well, maybe I’m a little worried.It is a statistical
likelihood that Katherine Tom is drunk at this very moment. She can
be reached at [email protected].