When out on the town, it’s a riot to parade this theory out, laugh about it among friends, joke that "poor Lou" has been dealt a pretty shitty hand. Oh yes, it’s all fun and games until Lou actually does get picked up by Grandpa Roof-less.
Now I know you’re thinking that I simply must be exaggerating; that the picture cannot be nearly as bleak as I have so grimly painted it.
My friends, it’s bleak. Believe me. I have witnesses.
Now, granted there have been a few outliers—the clean-cut former football player/teacher who was quite taken with me on New Year’s Eve… I imagine he was tall and good-looking, but the memory is very… fuzzy… fading… And then there’s… nope. That’s it. Everyone else has been classifiable as one or the other or—say it ain’t so—both.
I’m going to spare you and skip the "war" stories about uninvited advances from bums and geriatrics (who, as it turns out, seem to be the boldest when hitting on young women in public places—probably because they have the least to lose. Dignity? What’s that?). Instead I will skip ahead to a story I like to call: Another Saturday Night at a Neighborhood Bar. I was with @. She lives in the neighborhood too.
Nearing the end of the evening, @ and I found ourselves sitting at a table with three young gentleman. They were lovely, I’m sure. Now, I strive for honest communication with my readers... you know this. But, what I’m about to tell you... it’s a little embarrassing.
As mentioned above, we are nearing the end of the evening, beverages had been involved, I may have been slightly intoxicated... maybe a little more than "slightly." Regardless, I was drunk enough that I was unabashedly flirting with a 24-year-old Whole Foods employee who likely hadn’t combed or washed his hair in several days.
I know, I know. It’s horrifying, but I was bored... and drunk. Never a good combination. Cut a girl some slack. I’m not defending my actions, just providing facts.
Thankfully, the night ended without any complete disruptions in judgement (i.e. taking this loser home) and so all was well... until @, with her character assessment skills and insightful nature, said this (and I very loosely quote):
"I think you actually seek out the guys who could potentially be homeless."
Oh no she didn’t.
Oh, she did. And, thank goodness, because she turned my whole world on its ear. Suddenly, day break—light where there was once only darkness—and… clarity. It's not the crazy, dirty, hippie, jobless freaks… it's me (I'm beginning to detect a theme here...).
It occurred to me then that I am one of those women who picks up strays--sort of a female Peter Pan (he was rather effeminate, don’t you think?) running around Never Neverland (the Chicago bar scene—talk about never wanting to grow up) collecting Lost Boys.
How on earth did we get here?
So, I had one of my famous talks with myself: “Self,” I said, “You are a smart, successful, Hilarious, clever, not completely unfortunate looking woman who is only belligerent on occasion and suffers from mild delusions of grandeur. You've got a lot to offer someone! Why aim so low when it comes to the fellas? If you want a stray, go down to the Humane Society and adopt a damn dog!”
I suppose I’m telling you this because I have a new mission for myself, one which I’d like to make public so ya’ll can hold me to it: My mission is to adhere to the standards that I believe I deserve in a guy… or at least that I say I believe I deserve. You know, the basics... good personality, a job, some intelligence, maybe a sense of humor, enough money to pay for dinner, decent personal hygiene habits.
Impossible? With my history… and luck…