Carpe Diem

I'm out for drinks with a guy who has no hair, wears his pants too high and looks perpetually surprised because his eyeballs are too large.

I would like to make this work however, because he seems nice enough, has a decent job and may be one of the last remaining single men left in Victoria. I estimate there to be approximately 14 left in total.

I've been on first dates with five out of the 14, danced with an additional three at various gay bars and five more consider themselves too good-looking to date me and are holding out for the next Swimsuit Illustrated cover girl.

The very last guy on the still single list is a 600 pound shut-in who's currently trapped between his bathtub and the towel rack. Should he be able to free himself by this weekend, we have a date for Friday.

Although other women are lucky enough to have found partners they find physically attractive, this may be a luxury I won't get to have. I try looking at my date from different angles, squinting with one eye, or staring over his shoulder so he appears blurred. It helps.

He's a few years older than me, and the conversation turns to the most significant changes in attitude we've experienced since getting older. I tell him that being in my thirties is a lot better than my twenties. I'm more confident, more experienced and I know what I want.

(For both of my readers who think I'm a steaming mess at 33 - be glad you didn't know me at 23. I'm actually not that different now come to think of it...but I do have more shoes. That should count for something.)

My date leans forward, the ambiance glaring off of his bald little head and says this:

What you need to know is that this is as good as it's ever going to get for you. You will never look this good again, because it's all downhill from here. Everyday you'll deteriorate a little bit more, and you'll look that much worse, every day. For you, you shouldn't wait. It's never going to get any better than right now, and you should just jump on opportunities. Like, if you didn't like your body in your twenties, it's not any better right now. It just gets worse from here.

As I found out soon afterward when he insisted on walking me home, the opportunity he felt I should be jumping on was him. He was quite astonished when I didn't invite him inside - his pep talk on seizing the moment totally lost on me.

Or perhaps not lost entirely. He was right that I shouldn't wait, and I should jump on opportunities. I will never get to do any moment over again, or be as great as I am right now.

Leaving him on the sidewalk was the only reasonable option available for somebody like me, who may be deteriorated past the point of no return by midnight.

I have no more time to waste.

Cue Celine Dion singing: All By Myself...

All around me, friends are coupling. Friends I've counted on for a long time to reassure me that there is nothing wrong with me because they're single too, are now finding their one true loves.

I'm happy for them, but no amount of happiness I feel can compete, let alone get a word in edgewise, with the special happiness they've always dreamed of in their happiest, most happy, happiness that they are now experiencing and currently killing me with.

Seriously, I don't want to hear it.

Just stop it.

Stop. It.

At first, I would call for updates. I wanted to know all the happy details. You stayed on the phone for an extra hour because neither of you wanted to hang up first...? Aww. He calls you and leaves cutesy messages telling you how he's thinking about you on your work phone...? Too cute! You've never felt this way about anybody before and know this is The One...? Wow! I'm so happy you found each other!

Inevitably though, this Code Red level of joy must be shared in new ways. My newly coupled friends have now become relationship gurus through their own lucky happenstance. They found their soul-mates, and therefore know secrets I don't know and have never considered before.

For one, instead of doing as they've done by procuring myself an amazing man who is nice and kind and the most amazing man ever born, I pursue assholes. If only I would follow their lead and find myself a guy who treats me like a princess I would be so much better off.

This is valuable advice to be sure. It had never occurred to me to interact with nice men only. Instead of pining away and waiting for Charles Manson to write me back and wondering why he hasn't called, I should have been doing what my friends were doing...which is actually the same thing I was doing but with happier endings.

It's the ending I've got wrong apparently. Instead of checking off the box marked, "Gong Show," when handed my relationship menu at the beginning of every date, I should put an X next to "Fairy Tale." Gotcha.

Perhaps I send mixed signals to the universe. One newly coupled friend is convinced she met the most amazing man ever in the history of men and amazingness because she decided she was "open," and the universe provided accordingly.

I tried being open for one afternoon, and a sea gull shat on my shoulder. Obviously I'm better off being a little less accessible to the universe, and a little lower on the radar.

My mixed signals must be the reason for some pretty mixed results. My longest relationship began as blissful, and remained blissful...on paper and in public. He was also amazing...until he wasn't.

Right up until he'd snap he'd be the nicest guy ever, which always made me question my sanity even when I was cramming my car full of the only belongings I could carry and fleeing the province to get away. The universe had that half right...I guess.

Then came Alex. Alex used to leave me cutesy messages at work, call me all the time and make me feel wonderful. Now I still enjoy his occasional Facebook update and the sound of his voice telling me to leave a message.

Things change, some times breaking your heart in the process. I'm not sure where the universe and I got our wires crossed, but I'm refusing to be either open or closed. I'm available by appointment only.

Another friend recently rewarded by the universe swears I should just stop looking. She stopped looking, and now she's frolicking in meadows or whatever it is these new couples get up to.

Granted, before finding her prince she was on E-Harmony and Plenty of Fish but I suppose that wasn't really looking - only browsing.

Out of any of the helpful advice I get that makes me want to drive my single girl vibrator straight through my eyeball, finding somebody by not looking will be the most likely to blind me.

All of my friends now in relationships were looking, right up until they found somebody.

Rewriting history to say that you had just managed to achieve self-actualization and were perfectly content to grow old alone mere minutes before a romance more magical than that between a human and a vampire who sparkles in the sun lands in your lap does not make it true.

(Also, I just watched Twilight for the first time just to see what all the fuss is about. While the story as a parable about waiting to have sex until marriage is eye-rolling, I would do Edward Cullen. Yes I would. Universe? I'm totally open to that idea. Get on it.)

It's hard being the forgotten fry in the container. The one that's all shrivelled and brown with a patch of green that nobody wants, even when still hungry. Telling the universe to make me into a potato or to ignore the fact I'm the last french fry won't help. Also, I need to have lunch if that wasn't readily apparent.

I'm happy for my friends. Honestly, I am. But if all this happiness continues, the weddings had better be open bar and whatever they do - invite some single guys to the receptions. Not that I'm looking.

Side effects may include...

I live in the land of the va-jay-jay. There are seven women in my city to every one man. I'm not a statistician and can barely calculate my share of any bill plus the tip without counting on my fingers and yet I know this much...the ratio is not good. This ratio means that I often consider exactly what standards I need to be lowering in order to be in a semi-successful relationship.

(At this point I regard anything lasting more than 24 hours as semi-successful, so it's not like I'm shooting for the stars. I settle more for shooting for the street lamps, or sometimes just as high as the lamp on my nightstand.)

The situation is becoming desperate, and I've wondered at what point I become desperate too. I've found myself compromising morals, my own values and at least three different commandments just to get a few physical needs met, and it may only be a matter of time before I compromise on what I may once of thought were bare minimum requirements. Like teeth.

It was for these reasons I was uncharacteristically hopeful about meeting Brian for dinner. He was tall, good looking, employed, athletic and fresh out of a long-term relationship. This may be a red flag for women who don't live where I do, but to me it's like being a collector of rare art work and finding a Picasso on Craigslist.

We did the usual email exchange for a while, and he was sweet and kind. He wanted to know all about my day, and told me more than once how much he looked forward to my messages. The pre-date period was going very well.

The date itself was not terrible. He kept his eyes off our waitress' boobs, which even I found mesmerizing. He complimented me on my outfit, asked me questions about myself and half-way listened to the answers. He had really pretty arms and shoulders. Given my newly adjusted standards - a dream come true.

He drove me back to my place, pulled up to the curb and there we sat. I'm not going to lie. I was on him like the proverbial fat kid on a smartie. I'm not proud of this, but both readers of this blog should know by now that demure is not exactly in my repertoire. Neither is good fortune, as I was about to find out.

Brian was a fabulous kisser, and he really seemed to like that I apparently had no decorum whatsoever. In fact, in relatively no time he was talking dirty and telling me I should move my hand down and feel what he had for me, in just those words.

This seemed rather quick, even for me, despite the fact I'd somehow launched myself onto the front console of his car without any effort whatsoever, a move I probably can't replicate ever again without the use of a harness and or crane.

However, there I was, and it seemed impolite to decline. I moved my hand down. And then down farther. And then over there. And then back. And then...maybe here? No. There? No. I was reaching into the front of his pants like I was rummaging for change, and there was nothing. I couldn't feel anything at all. Just a very small bump...umm...really? This is it right here? Huh.

Brian however, was enjoying my efforts. He asked me, "Do you want to see it baby?" And I replied, "I think I better."

Now...I've seen my share of penises before. Enough so that it would make a lot of sense to me if there were a plural word for the penis. Peni? Pene? The point is, I've seen more than one. More than two actually. Probably more than five, but less than a hundred. I've seen enough to have a baseline - some standard of what a penis should look like.

This penis did not match that standard. To say it was small, would be to imply that perhaps it was just smaller than average, but that would not be accurate. It's too difficult to compare what I was witnessing to other penises (peni? pene?) It would be much more accurate to say that it was smaller than the earrings I was wearing. His penis was smaller than my jewellery.

I think there is actually a medical explanation for this, and I think it has to do with his very attractive broad shoulders and muscular arms. Brian was built, and he trains in mixed martial arts. I quizzed him over dinner on what kind of work-outs he did, genuinely curious as I really enjoy kickboxing. Strangely, he didn't work out much. He hadn't trained hard in a couple of months...but he was huge.

There's only one thing that can make a guy's shoulders so attractive you actually want to have sex with his bicep, but be unable to have sex with his penis. Steroids. Goddammit.

What I should have been thinking about was what to say now that he'd whipped it out and was asking, "Do you love it baby?" It seemed wrong to say that it would definitely look fantastic on a necklace, or hanging from a Christmas tree or some other use that didn't require practicality, so I went with what I was genuinely thinking.

"Wow."

He said he knew I'd love it, and invited me to taste it. How nice of him. I'll admit to having put some questionable items in my mouth for some questionable reasons, not the least being some sushi rolls I thought may have turned and a double-stuff Oreo that I knew was on the ground way longer than three seconds, never mind the roster of guys I've dated, more than five, less than 100.

This shriveled little appendage however, was not going near my mouth. It was so small, it actually creeped me out - way more than the lint covered Oreo. I declined.

Naturally, he was disappointed. "Oh come on baby, I know you want this. Tell me what you think."

A friend of mine recently came up with a fantastic word to say to parents of an ugly baby when some sort of compliment seems called for, but there are no words come to mind. Luckily, all of my friends babies are genuinely cute, and I haven't had to use this word...until now.

"Your dick...is truly remarkable."

I kissed him once more, before remembering something I really had to do right away, in my apartment, away from him. I said good-bye and got out of the car to go figure out what it was.

It seems Brian and I both learned something about ourselves that night, as a few hours later I got a very nice email saying that he'd had a great time with me but he realized that he's just not ready to date anybody again so soon. Meanwhile, I have also come to an important realization. There really are some standards I'm just not willing to lower.