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The Numbers Just Don’t Add up to a Date

September 16, 2013

Disclaimer: In the midst of my discussion about how little I’d like to get laid, I get pretty hot and heavy with the innuendo on all manner of outrageous acts. Probably NSFW, unless you work for a premium-cable channel and your boss will scoff at my G-ratedness.

Last weekend, I told my uncle we’d need to keep our band rehearsal under two hours because I needed to get to my friend’s house and watch the third-to-last episode ever of Dexter. 

“A ‘friend,’ eh?” my uncle replied, just as I was preparing my summary spiel of why Dexter was such an awesome show that I needed to pre-emptively strike the set on my latest shot at fame and fortune. Clearly I forgot that where family is involved, you could say, “I just murdered the 17-year-old coke whore I ‘invited’ over, and I need to stash his body at my friend’s house,” and the only part of that sentence that would make their ears perk up would be ‘friend.’

...But of course I'm not calling my family members bitches for their single-mindedness!

…But of course I’m not calling my family members bitches for their single-mindedness!

“Yep. A friend. Just a friend,” was all I could sigh. Explaining to your relatives that you currently intend to get back on the market on the same day that it uses the Mark of the Beast as its standard only results in sympathetic looks and the infuriatingly knowing smile that accompanies both silent and voiced murmurs of, “You’ll change your mind.”

As with explaining one’s childfreedom, this is a game the underdog just can’t win.  Childfreedom, however, is at least gaining media attention for being so unusual. There are scattered media references to the growing collective of asexuals, but it currently seems as if the idea of not wanting sex when our movies, TV, and advertisements are all about tickling one’s desires for copulation is too unfathomable to be anything but trolling. Not to mention, of course, that not all asexuals are aromantic.

So it seems unlikely that I’ll ever find much of a groundswell supporting my spinster style. But luckily, if I ever am called to explain my atheistic cloistering, my family is made up of analytic souls like myself, so I might be able to support my own cause with a little number-mongering.

Granted, the problem with this mathematical explanation is that it is based around my deep-seated desire to never have children, which will probably land me in a vicious cycle of “You’ll change your mind” smirks. But if I can throw enough articles on childfreedom at them and get them to accept this as a solid premise, some of my major reasons for not dating will sound solid enough.

Those major reasons being that I’m going to have a very difficult sustaining a relationship (which, as every family member knows, is the only reason to go on dates with anyone!) with men my own age. Not because of a lack of common interests or pop culture references (although I’d estimate a good 6% of the total conversations I’ve been privy to in my life have gone straight over my head due to my never having watched The Simpsons), but because of a lack of common goals.

See, obviously, children. If I date a man my own age, 80% of the time, he’s got his biological clock ticking away in the background. He’s going to be eyeballing my breasts and hips for their life-sustaining as well as their erection-sustaining purposes. And since I don’t want to have anything to do with his erection or its eruptions, I’m going to be 0 for 2 right off the bat. There will be no joy in Mudville, either, since I REALLY loathe the idea of anal.

Now, I could go swing by the University of Denver campus and pick up some young stud in his late teens or early twenties. But besides the fact that that’s a little pervy, I’d still have to get over my current sense that penises are a major source of cooties (although let’s face it, they are! [In the interest of equal opportunities, so are vaginas, anuses, mouths, and eye sockets. Whatever floats your little man in a boat or swells your sack.]), and, more importantly, that bodily contact isn’t much fun for me. Plus, if we are going back to the goal of dating being a long-term relationship, things are going to fall apart in five to ten years when he figures out that I am absolutely dead serious about having the maternal desires of frozen cabbage, and we’re both going to feel we’ve wasted each other’s time.

But I could move to the other end of the age spectrum easily enough. Older dudes’ pride in nailing a younger woman needs no explanation, and I live close enough to Cherry Creek, the section of Denver that has to be enunciated with a fake posh accent and a pinky finger waving in the air, that I could easily find a middle-aged man of means looking to get back at his ex-wife any way possible. Bonus points for me in that such a man would have done the whole marriage and kids thing already and, if my cynical generalization has any basis in reality, wouldn’t be too eager to go through it again if he could in any way help it.

But of course, this raises its own set of issues, like the Daddy ones I don’t have but people would automatically assume I did, seeing as how I’d have to date men old enough to have at least preteen children for me to be a fully invested part of their lives. Plus, there’s the fear that I would run into the guy who needs more than a rebound self-esteem booster because he happens to be an embittered basement-dweller whose penis has gone concave from disuse.

In sum, I can’t date men my age, I can’t date younger men, and I can’t date older men. I could try dating women, but as I often lamented with my college BFFs, I don’t swing that way no matter how hard I’ve tugged on the ropes. And while I’d consider dating transsexuals, they have, by and large, been through enough shit in their lives that they want and deserve more warmth and stability than I could ever hope to offer.

So I will stick to singing about the miseries of love and marriage with my well-meaning relatives rather than experiencing them myself. Although as long as that was the extent of it, I probably wouldn’t say no to meeting a “friend” who wanted to treat me to a steak and martini in Cherry Creek every so often.

Don’t forget to like my Facebook Page! If I get enough likes, I’ll stop posting this annoying message at the bottom of my posts!


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  1. Amber permalink

    I enjoyed this! Good job! The numbers don’t add up to a date for me either. Some of the variables in my own situation are different than yours. But the sum total is the same.

  2. I applaud you. I thought I was the only one that thought these things. Thank you for being awesome.

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