Issue #87 – “Singled Out” – April 10th, 2006

-To me, being single is like having diplomatic immunity.  I come and go as I please.  I answer to no authority.  And if accused of lewd behavior, I can just claim ignorance: “Sorry, I’m not from around here and don’t understand this concept you call dating.”  My status as a bachelor is particularly significant at the moment because I’m back in New York City for the week and I just realized that virtually every last one of my buddies has a girlfriend.  It seems as if the only remaining holdouts are Triplet #2, who moved to London, and Shermdog, who is currently visiting said Triplet.  How did it come to this?  I’m alone.  My wingmen have all been picked off.  It’s me against the world.  Shit…I’ve been singled out.

-I find it annoying that girls physically have trouble admitting that they’re single.  Ask a girl if she’s single and she’ll invariably stammer, glance at her girl friends, giggle, mention something about some guy in Chicago she’s “sorta seeing,” and then finally confess she’s unattached.  On the other hand, ask me if I’m single and I’ll be like, “Absolutely!  Why, did a chick want to know?  Where is she?  I’ve never been more single in my life than right now!” and my belt’s already halfway off.

-If you’re a girl in a bar who has a boyfriend, instead of “hello,” I think the first word out of your mouth should be required by law to be…“boyfriend.”

-My cell phone number happens to be comprised of multiple variations of the numbers “6” and “9.”  When I give it to chicks, they look at me like I’m a dirty bastard.  Some guys get a bad reputation from sleeping around.  I got mine from T-Mobile.

-An ancillary benefit of emailing with thousands of people every week is that I’ve developed nearly impeccable online game.  I can converse with a girl via MySpace, email, or text message, and by the time we meet in person, the deal is already pretty much sealed.  Sometimes my friends even outsource those skills.  One night last year, Shermdog got an IM from a chick he barely knew.  Seeing the conversation going nowhere fast, he asked me to stand behind him and tell him what to type.  A few hours later, he was nailing her.  Seriously, I’m like an electronic Cyrano.

-It’s been about eight months since Ex-Girlfriend and I broke up.  And while there are certain things I miss about our relationship (for instance, my apartment at the time didn’t have DVR but hers did), there are also a lot of things I don’t miss at all – like awkwardly calling temporary timeout on a heated argument because the waiter has approached the table.  I’m pretty sure that all waiters know that the phrase “We just need another minute to look at the menu,” is couple code for “No one is getting laid tonight.”

-In the end, being singled out has its ups and downs.  I should be able to thrive without wingmen this week because, as an author and comedian, if I meet a new girl I can regale her with literally hundreds of funny stories she’s never heard before (I usually get old around week three).  At the same time, I’ve often been in the middle of hooking up with a chick and had her say to me, “Karo, you have to promise me you won’t write about this.”  Of course, I never agree to such a stipulation because it would compromise the integrity of this column.  You’d be surprised, though – it actually turns girls on when I stand my ground.  Though, considering our only prior communication is usually via text message, perhaps it’s not me, but rather my cell phone number that’s doing all the dirty work.

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-Ever say goodbye to everyone after a long night and then get halfway down the block only to realize you forgot your jacket?  You always have to go back, acknowledge the weird looks everybody’s giving you, respond to irritating little gibes like “Hey!  Back already?” then reclaim your jacket and hoist it skyward while doing a half lap around to demonstrate to the gathering crowd that all is well and you’ve simply returned to retrieve the North Face you now rue ever having purchased.

-Question for people who place a towel over the display on the treadmill so they can’t see how far they’ve run:  Are you and that guy at the free weights who’s actually wearing a bandanna in some sort of contest to see who looks most like a jackass?

-I noticed a few weeks ago that the janitor cleaning the bathrooms at BWI Airport had a copy of Good Housekeeping magazine in his little cart.  I thought, damn, this guy really keeps up on the trends.

-I didn’t think it was possible, but I’m actually too good at remembering birthdays.  As an attentive friend, I’ve taken the time over the years to log everyone’s birthday into Outlook.  But lately I feel like when I call someone on their special day before even some of their closest relatives have, I’m looked upon suspiciously.  As if, even though I technically haven’t done anything wrong, my thoughtfulness has somehow been artificially aided.  I’m like the Barry Bonds of birthdays.

-“Lost” remains my favorite show on television, though the second season has been a little trying at times.  I mean, come on, they have a laundry machine now, it’s kind of ridiculous.  But there is one real world lesson that I’ve learned from “Lost.”  After all they’ve been through – the crash, the monster, the Others – they’ve never, ever given up hope on pulling ass.  It’s like the first week they were concerned with getting rescued.  The second week they were concerned with getting water.  And by the third week they were concerned with getting head.

-And, finally, I’ll admit that sometimes I wonder how I of all people became one of the few of my friends to remain single.  Let’s face it, I’m a catch:  successful writer, Ivy League graduate, eats right, great family, sense of humor.  But then I remember why I’ve never had a relationship last longer than eighteen months – I’m obsessive, neurotic, and downright strange.  For instance, I sometimes Google misspelled words to find web sites with poor proofreaders.  When using a new bathroom, I often search for the little indent where the doorknob keeps hitting the same spot on the wall.  I’m not really a lover or a fighter.  It really bothers me that the American League West has only four teams even though I know it was done for scheduling purposes.  I still have the lucky t-shirt that I took the SATs in – and I wore it yesterday.  I fret, worry, observe, write, and repeat.  In essence, when it comes to romantic relationships, it’s not that I’m high maintenance, it’s more like there’s no instruction manual and they stopped making the parts.  Thus, most likely I’ll continue my current holding pattern of hijinks and hook-ups indefinitely, while continuing to wonder if I’ll always be singled out.  One might say I’m running the treadmill of dating, but, ironically, have no idea how far I’ve gone.  Fuck me.