Why I Love Singlehood: by Elisa Lorello, Sarah Girrell Page B

endless parade of first dates that felt like interviews, sick of conveyor belt dating. Even though the majority of men were cordial, gallant, and complimentary (some of them warranted second dates, and one even made it to three), none of them offered anything by way of chemistry. I don’t even know if “chemistry” is the right word. Even in terms of my “friends first” criteria, they all fell short.
    Although I shared common interests and a couple of laughs with these guys, we failed to connect in terms of eliciting long conversations into the night, or the passage of hours in what seemed like minutes. None of them inspired lengthy e-mails or endless phone calls. None of them made me feel giddy, or smile when no one was in the room. None of them prompted me to share my life stories, my hopes and dreams, strengths and vulnerabilities. Few, if any, even made me horny.
    The last one was a combination of Denny Crane and Voldemort. Disenchanted yet again, I decided it was time for a report card.
The Deal Breakers
I was going to begin this post apologetic for being superficial and demanding perfection where none is to be found, but after two months of steady dates, and a few choice decades on this planet, I’ve decided against it. Because we all have ’em, and we all know it. You know, pet peeves, worst-habit-evers, nerve-graters. Flaws that are just not acceptable, would never be considered “cute” during that dreamy in-love phase, and will never turn into something you just have to live with. The relationship-enders. Deal breakers. Won’t-get-to-first-base deficiencies. And what can you do but laugh? As the musician Emily Saliers once said, “You have to laugh at yourself sometimes, because you’d cry your eyes out if you didn’t.” So here, in good fun, are a few that have crossed my path, unfortunately. (I’ve changed names to protect the guilty.)
     
Deal Breaker #1: “William from Wrightsville Beach” brings home recyclable trash.
Here we are, at one of those cute grill shacks that sells hot dogs loaded with krout, hamburgers and greasy fries, and frozen custard. The kind of place that only has picnic tables outside. We are having a good time, me with my burger so pink it could moo, him with his chilidog, and the two of us sipping our cans of Coke, swapping our favorite scenes from
The Office
. We finish, and as I get up to throw out our trash, he swivels his head like a cornered dog searching for an exit.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I don’t see a recycling bin anywhere for the cans. And these cardboard boats, they can be recycled, too.”
“Not with all this ketchup dripping all over them, they can’t.”
William then proceeds to go into the shack and asks for a bag, to which the poor teenager behind the counter informs him that she can only give him a full-size garbage bag. William comes back outside, grabs a few more napkins, wipes down the cardboard boats with them, flattens them, and then wraps them in two more napkins. So here I am, trying to rationalize how sweet, how caring, how
conscientious
he is when he goes over to the trash can. Oh yeah, the trash can. The trash can to end all trash cans. The thing looks like it hasn’t been emptied in weeks and is dripping with crusted ketchup. I can smell it all the way from where I am standing, watching in horror as he gently opens the lid and begins extracting cardboard boxes as if they’re jewels on some exotic archaeological dig. I wish I were joking.
Oh, but that’s not all. Nope, he’s
muttering
as he’s doing it. He’s actually
picking through the nasty, food-crusted, grease-drenched trash can
and
talking to himself
. At this point I can hear a voice telling me that the highest rate of murder victims in the country are white females—a good portion of which are murdered by people they’ve only had one social encounter with…like a date. I seriously consider hitchhiking, he looks that unstable. I am scoping out a car full of college