And Now for ‘Something New’???

An excerpt of this blog appeared yesterday on Alphanista.com.  View it here: http://tinyurl.com/yg7r7lp

I used to think I was different than everyone else, a true individual with very unique experiences.  Apparently, I’m just a statistic.

According to a Yale University study among women with advanced degrees, Black women are twice as likely never to have been married by age 45 than White women.  Tell me something I don’t know.  Most of my friends are single, educated sisters who can’t get a date…a date with anyone we like, anyway.  On the other hand, well damn!  My singlehood has been documented and confirmed by sociologists, which makes it some kind of fact.  Grrrr!

But wait, there’s more!  More than any other group studied, Black women are we’re less likely than even our men to have college-grad spouses.  Think about that for a minute, and realize that it’s because Black men are more likely to marry White women, while Black women would rather find a Brotha with a GED than cross over into “something new” territory.  Yep, that information is in the study too.  I’m not really liking these options: someone hand me a cocktail or a pint of Haagen-Dazs!

Like every woman in America, I guess I have a fantasy about my potential mate.  He’s tall, dark and handsome…to be clear, he’s taller than me, darker than me, and I find him handsome but that doesn’t mean he has to look like Blair Underwood.  Actually, I did date a guy who looked like Blair Underwood, but that’s a story for another time.  My Fantasy Brotha – and he is a brotha – has a background like mine, which is to say he went to college, was raised by both parents, and is really smart and kinda geeky.  Hey, I dated that guy too.  A few times.  And when it didn’t work out I veered away from my fantasy and towards the reality of dating different kinds of men.

I’ve gone out with guys who aren’t as educated as me, who don’t have professional jobs, and it wasn’t for me.  Look, I have nothing against a high-school graduate; neither of my parents went to college.   And, degree or not, my Dad is one of the smartest men I know.  If I could find someone like him I’d have a browser window open right now for Blue Nile, ready to propose.  But the non-diploma’d men I’ve dated were intimidated by my friends from college and business school.  And they were intimidated by my family, which happens to be full of college people.  But my family is the loving/caring/sharing kind of family, not the snobby kind who one-ups each other at dinner.  I’m gonna need to be with someone that will do the Electric Slide at the family reunion, because fun and bonding doesn’t come with a certificate on the wall.  And its not like my friends walk around saying, “Let us gather and wax sentimental about the alma mater.  Boola Boola!” or start sentences with “When I got my MBA…” But occasionally I’ll want my guy to come to the Yale-Harvard game and get drunk at the parking lot tailgate.  And when he’s standing in the chug line-up next to me, I want him to feel comfortable with the guys tapping the keg.  I really don’t think that’s a lot to ask for.

Similarly, I don’t really want to marry a White man.  When I was in high school, I kind of assumed that I’d marry a White guy because I didn’t really socialize with Black guys.  This wasn’t intentional, but rather a by-product of bussing and gifted programs where I was the only Black student in my class for years.  When there were other Blacks, they were female.  Right now, I won’t go into what I think is wrong with that situation, or the institutionalized racism inherent in the educational system…again, a story for another time.  Suffice it to say that I had crushes on White classmates and had them over to my house, and did some serious hanging with White guys in college, but I never dated any of them.  I never dated anyone at all until I graduated from college and met some Black men that didn’t think I was corny.  I’m sure my dad was thrilled.  And so was I, not only because I actually had dates, but because I dated dudes I really connected with.   Black men feel like home to me and at the end of the day, I want to come home.  Now don’t call me a racist ‘cuz I still have plenty of White friends.  Yet some things about them remain strange to me.  Like, where are the washcloths?  Don’t y’all use them when you take a shower?  When I’m staying at your house, I expect you to give me a towel and washcloth, not a towel and a bar of soap, know what I mean?  My Black husband would get it, and we’d pack some extra terrycloth when we visit.  Then there’s the hair thing.  The mother of a Caucasian friend actually put her hand in my Afro before we were even introduced!  Imagine if that came from my man’s mother? I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say it’s a bad idea to bitch-slap potential family members, even if they do dumb stuff.

So you see, I’ve explored the options and I’m gonna have to stick with my original “tall, dark & educated” plan or suck it up and be single.  Actually, there could be hope with one of the nice Pakistani cab drivers that always tell me I’m beautiful.  Some of them are doctors in their country.  And we’d have nice brown babies.  It’s something to consider, but the jury’s still out.

Find me a date. No, seriously.

Perhaps its time for me to start dating again.  I don’t mind being single and I don’t care about eating alone or being alone or doing anything else alone. Except for vacations.  I do prefer to travel alone, but once I get where I’m going its usually twice as expensive to be by myself than it is to stay a deux.  Particularly at my age, when single friends are dwindling in numbers, it gets ever harder to convince someone to go someplace with me on the rare occasion that I’m sick of myself and want some company.  Then there’s scoring a date for all those weddings people insist on having so I won’t get all weepy and wistful during the new marrieds’ first dance or the other slow songs the DJ is obligated to play.

But how does one find a suitable date, let alone a suitable mate?  Honestly, I don’t know how people get together.  Sometimes it seems like lightening striking or an act of God, which is how people who’ve found each other generally describe it.  Now how is that supposed to help me?  I’ve met men at parties, bars, clubs.  Nope, nope, nope.  I’ve turned friendships into relationships, which nobody recommends and me least of all.  Internet dating is the worst of the worst.  Everyone knows couples who met online and fell in love and got married and are living happily ever after.  I do as well and I’m sincerely happy for them. But for me, let’s just say that I’ve dated a good many men I met on Match or eHarmony or whatever, and there’s a reason we never crossed paths before, and a reason we never will again without the information superhighway.  29 dimensions of compatibility my eye!  Lots of you will tell me I’m wrong so right on ahead.  Like the MBA that I am, I’ve done the research and run the numbers, and internet dating isn’t a good investment at this juncture.

I could always go out with some of the random men that hit on me daily, pass out my phone number a few times, except for the fact that I don’t want a bunch of random men walking around with my number.  Or I could act like a man and ask every somewhat attractive male that I see to go out with me.  First, I just don’t have that kind of game because, though well socialized, I’m still a dork.  Second, I don’t really see anyone who looks so good that, hot damn, I gotta get him and fast.  If you want to know the truth, and I know you do, I have flipped the script before.  No, not that one.  There was a time not so long ago when all I wanted was to get laid.  Not exactly dating, but bear with me here.  Now you have to understand that at that time, I looked a lot more like the stereotypical male fantasy of beauty than the rotund, natural-haired woman I am today.   Don’t get me wrong, I’m still the shit no matter how much I weigh, just that some people don’t see it that way.  Anyhow, I trolled the bars, had the obligatory public drunken make-out sessions and put myself out there like a tramp.  Know what happened?  Nothing.  Apparently I fell into the alternate NY universe where men want relationships and not casual sex.   So much for men wanting only one thing: turned out that my mother was actually wrong about something. Only once, though.  I mean, who did I have to sleep with to get laid in this town?  That would make a catchy title for a book if I could stomach enough sexual free-for-all to do the research.  It turns out that I can’t.

Some time later, after another annoying relationship that started out okay (yeah, I met him on the internet), I decided to give the men-for-sex-only thing another try, but in a classified ad kinda way.  That’s right, kids, I went to craigslist, purveyors of the one night stand.  They probably own stock in condom companies.  Here, one can have all the sex they want, but it turns out that I didn’t want it at all.  I was just bored and oddly intrigued by the kind of people who photograph their genitals and post them on message boards.  It seems that penises, like casual sex, are better when they’re attached to a man you like.  Or at least one whose last name you know.  I got nothing from that period of my life but funny stories and a pin from a Naval Officer during Fleet Week.  Come to think of it, I did complete my “Men of the Armed Forces” collection with that Marine from St. Patricks Day.  Happily I have no other souvenirs, hence my comment about owning stock in prophylaxis.

But back to my original topic and my potential journey from singledom.  I’ve looked everywhere for men, with the exception of church and prison.  Jail is a no-go, and quite frankly so is church.  To me, the sanctuary is a sterile environment, hence the name, and I’m really not thinking about men when I go in there.  Besides, extending the Right Hand of Fellowship doesn’t include copping a feel or slipping someone your number.  I have been hit on in church, mind you, and with all manner of Christian kindness I say to men looking to score at the 9:30 service, keep your hands to yourself and God bless you.  Now if you want to strike up a relevant conversation in the vestibule and dovetail that into “would you like to continue this fascinating discussion about Pastor’s interpretation of Luke?”,  I can dig it.  Just don’t let the rest of the single women in the church see us ’cause I don’t like gossipy whispering while I’m on the tithing line.  Amen.

So, friends, here I am.  Single and looking to mingle.  And by “mingle” I mean dating where sex is not expected at the end of it, or in lieu of it, but could probably be worked in at an appropriate time in the future if both parties are amenable.  I’ll probably regret this but I’m offering a challenge:  Date Me or Find me a Date.  If you’re a single straight man reading this, and you’re as intrigued and amused by my ramblings as you should be, let’s go out for a drink or coffee.  If I’ve tagged you in this note on Facebook, a witty and/or hilarious explanation will be the only accepted form of rejection.  Or that you’re kinda seeing someone.  I may put it all out there, but not that far out there.

If you’re not single, or are a woman, you are obligated to find me a date that you think I might like.  There’s plenty of written fodder you can use to figure that out.  No fair being married and setting me up with your only single male friend who still lives with his mother and collects Princess Diana dolls.  And no fair introducing me to the only Black man you know, even though he has no sense of humor, didn’t finish high school, and his last 3 girlfriends have looked like Gwyneth Paltrow.  Use some discretion, okay?

As an added bonus, I have many single female friends/cousins/coworkers/classmates of all sizes and colors and I’m willing to introduce them to some new fellas.  You know, pay it forward.

If I were to write a 1980′s-style personals ad for myself, it would go something like this:  “Sarcastic, sexy smartypants seeks similar for scintillating conversation over coffee or drinks.  D/D free.  Age, race unimportant, but opinions and height are.  Democrats preferred, but willing to argue with M.O.R. Republicans.  No prudes.”

What do you have to lose?  Worst case, you’ll have stories to tell your friends.  Best case, I’ll have stories to write for my friends.  Don’t worry:  I won’t use real names.

Holla. No, up here!

Once again I wonder about the logic of some men and their pick-up game. It probably defies logic, but I’m going to ponder anyway.  Today’s would-be Don Juan was spotted leaning out of a sunroof trying to holla at a girl, telling her how sexy she was and, I believe, asking for her number.  To his credit, he did say “Excuse me, miss” a few times to get her attention, which was polite. He was also not the car’s driver, and the car was stopped at a light, so he gets points for safety. But why does anyone think that red light + pretty girl = dating opportunity?   What’s the protocol here, get to the closest parking spot for some quality time?  Or write your number on a paper airplane and throw it from the car?  As long as I live, I will continue to be baffled by this behavior, sticking heads out of car windows and yelling from construction sites. And my low male comprehension probably explains why I’m still single.

Remember the Sex and the City episode where Miranda calls a construction worker on his sexual come-ons? He refuses because he’s married.  I suspect that if women everywhere did the same thing, tried to close the deal on a drive-by offer, the men would run away. Still some part of me thinks its like fishing: put your line in the water enough times and you’re going to come up with something. Sometimes its a fish, sometimes its a boot you have to throw back. I’ve said many times that I’m particular about where I throw my line, preferring Montauk to the East River.  And I have seen fishing in the East River,  hopefully just for sport.  Men, so it seems, are more like trawlers dragging the water for whatever gets into the net, seeing success by volume and not quality.  I may be a catch, but I’m not taking just any bait, so I’ll wait for the best worm.

In case you were wondering, “Ms. Sexy on the Street” thanked “Rooftop Romeo” for the compliment, then walked away.  I knew it never worked.