I'm leaving for a mini-holiday in Banff to visit a great friend this long weekend, and I couldn't be more excited to drink and eat her and her lovely husband out of house and home for four days (Hi Heidi! I apologize in advance for any damage to your property! Please send me an itemized invoice upon my return to the island.)
Since moving to Banff, my friends have taken up all kinds of extreme outdoor pursuits such as snowshoeing, hiking in areas without flush toilets, and leaving the house. While they're very excited about their new lifestyle, I'm excited just to know people who do things for fun that I would only consider doing as part of a desperate attempt to survive following some sort of horrible apres ski chalet collapse. I'm open to the idea of trying anything this weekend though, because I will most likely be drunk.
I've been trying many new exciting things lately while sober too, and the results have not been stellar. My list of things I'm getting really, really tired of hearing has expanded lately, with several friends telling me (more than once)that I should probably think about lowering my standards with regards to dating.
Initially I felt that if I lowered my standards any more I'd be trying to show off my cleavage while still dressing for the cold in the local morgue, because a steady pulse rate has really been the only requirement I've refused to compromise. After more careful consideration though, I thought that maybe my friends might have a point.
Despite my love for firefighters and all men with demonstrably more testosterone than brains, what I'm looking for is actually more nuanced than that. I would like to find a man who I consider to be attractive, who is intelligent and kind, and who makes me laugh. For anything to work out, he would also have to think that I am the fucking rapture. It's actually not a long list of must-haves, but I realized that perhaps I'd have to be more flexible in at least one area.
For example, the men I find most attractive don't often feel the same way about me. After extensive research, and by research I mean waiting to see who replies to my profile on Plenty of Fish, I've discovered that the segment of the male population most interested in meeting me are the short, bald, and egg-shaped contingent.
It's easy to understand how my thinking may change when told enough times that what I'm looking for is just unrealistic. When I used to watch Seinfeld I would marvel at the idea that a guy like George Costanza was always dating hot women. Now I understand that those women likely had friends telling them they should probably give their previously higher standards a bit of a rest.
Perhaps by only pursuing men I might one day want to see naked in this lifetime, I was really setting my standards too high. The little bald guy with dandruff on his bare head and boobs bigger than mine wearing a stained Star Trek t-shirt two sizes too small may actually be a diamond in the rough. Surrounded by tonnes of coal. Buried deep, deep within a yet undiscovered mine, but a diamond nonetheless. He may treat me well. He may be fabulously wealthy. He may look the other way when I hump the pool boy's leg in some future fit of unrequited lust. Who am I to judge based solely on appearances?
Lately, I've been accepting dates with guys whose online pictures might once have made me cringe a little bit. If he seems to be a nice guy then I will give him a chance. This is how I found myself in a Starbucks last night, feigning interest in my date's story about how he never leaves the house without his inhaler, sunscreen and cough drops, because his throat and skin are very delicate. In his defense, he was quite pale and the comb over wouldn't do very much to protect his head from UV rays.
Finally, I had to interrupt to ask something important. While we had chatted on MSN for a little while before agreeing to meet, I only knew him by his screen name, and felt very foolish meeting somebody without knowing his actual name. I told him his screen name was very cute, but we should probably be properly introduced.
Apparently...the screen name he goes by is his real name. He was quite surprised and insulted I would imply otherwise, because his name is not that unusual. Even though I try very hard not to use real names in my little blog, I have to share this one with my six loyal readers.
People...his name was Elmo.
El. Mo.
Elmo.
Certainly, this isn't unusual at all. I've met so many people named after a fire-engine red giggling muppet that I can't even recollect them all. And this was the moment I had an epiphany.
I am a shallow, shallow bitch. I really am. Let's set aside the fact that this guy wouldn't make my lady parts quiver if his was the very last penis left on earth, and I won't even mention how he had these long yellow and curved thumb nails for some godforsaken reason that made me want to retch and let's ignore the fact that if I really truly have to lower my standards enough to spend one more second listening to the sound his tongue made every time he licked his lips and glanced at my tits I will commit flamboyant ritual suicide. Let's set all of that aside, because none of that matters.
I will NOT date somebody named Elmo. Apparently, I've found a low I will not sink to, and in doing so, I'm embracing my inner shallow bitch.
From now on, when I see my date I want my panties to fall off, my knees to go weak and my heart to flutter. I will wait for this, even if it means a lifetime spent with my only physical comfort coming from a well-stocked battery supply for my vibrator and whatever animals I eventually end up hoarding.
I deserve nothing less.
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