I'll lay it right on out there: Dating in New York sucks like I couldn't have possibly imagined it would.
So I'm pretty cute. It took me a relatively long time to be able to say that, and more importantly believe that, about myself, but I'm there now. Sure, like most girls I'd feel much more comfortable if I had Heidi Klum's bod, Eva Longoria's hair and Mary-Louise Parker's skin, but in the absence of all of that, I'm me and I'm pretty cute. I'm (nearly) a six. I'm the take me home to meet your mother, girl next door type less than the fantasize about tearing my clothes off when you see me across a crowded room, but, hey, that's cool, too.
Except that, in New York, I'm a (nearly) six in a sea of eights and nines. And these are the normal girls. Sure, I have a lot of other things to offer someone other than a touch of cuteness, but I'm talking pure physical attraction, come over and say hello, here. And being a six in a sea of nines makes for a kind of sad dating life.
Singledom, for me personally, was all but a death sentence. I love to be social with my friends, but getting me "out there" (in bars, clubs, etc.) to meet new people where people typically meet is just never going to happen. I mean, c'mon, I'm at home on a Saturday night and just took a break from watching Buffy to blog. And this is what I planned to do. Do you see my concern for a lifetime of loneliness and high cable bills?
So the meeting people thing happens, at best, in waves. Someone introduces me to someone. Great. I generally make a good first impression when I'm able to be my witty, smiling self. But I have to get that far first. The person of my dreams has to want to meet me and that, at least in the online realm, is based almost exclusively on that one photo. And that perfect candid photo capturing the essence of me eludes, well, me. And without that, I'm just the (nearly) six, if, of course, you willing to look past the 35 eights and nines to get to me.
Because they are everywhere. On the subway. Crossing the street. In the office. On Match.com. They never sweat while working out. Their hair looks as fabulous in a ponytail as it does any other time. Their clothes fit them as if they were custom-made by Cinderella's little mice/fairy friends. And, really, I don't begrudge these girls a life partner. Some of them are probably really great. Greater than me. Smart, witty, charming, beautiful. The whole damn 8/9 package. And well, how fabulous for them.
But, in the interest of me hating them and defending girls everywhere who don't wake up like they just stepped off a runway, I want to say, "you know what? You've got at least a solid two points on me, bitch. Let me go on just ONE date with the George Clooney look-like and let him see my charming self. If he's not wanting a second date, then by all means, he's yours."