So here’s the thing:
I live alone, and I am okay with that most of the time. I used to have a cat, until a nearly-fatal choking not unlike Miranda’s Chinese-down-the-wrong-pipe incident pushed me to remove any potential face-devouring creatures from my abode.
As an adult, I’ve had only five serious relationships, one of them veering perilously close to marriage (back when crushing myself into a misery ball for the sake of satisfying someone else’s dream seemed like a workable idea), and I’ve cohabitated with my girlfriends in all but two of them. This has gone horribly, horribly wrong, and I know it’s because of my “type.”
You see, given my nearly fatal case of what I like to call “Lesbian Britomart Syndrome,” I tend to be attracted to ladies who are:
A) In some sort of peril (none as yet have been held captive by wicked sorcerers named Busyrane, however)
B) Unavailable/Available but Uninterested/”Available” in that They Have No Qualms About Sleeping with Me While Technically “Married”
C) Pretty, pretty princesses eager to soak up my abject worship without any real expectation that I will act on it, as I am “safe” and consequently, by their lights, positively dying to hear about how horrible their current boyfriend/husband/wife-beater-wearing Neanderthal is, and how they wish they were a lesbian, but not really, tee-hee-hee!
D) Crazier than a shithouse rat.
E) Dumber than a box of hair.
F) All of the above
In the movie of life, I am this chick. I fall for the Marsha Bradys of the world, and they’re too busy trying to get Davy Jones to play the school dance to see me as anything but a Noreen.
Wah, wah, wah, right? Yeah, I know, pathetic. But what’s a girl to do? I don’t know how to be Davy Jones! I’m neither tiny nor British, although we did share a hairstyle for a while during the late 70’s. And, truth be told, I know myself well enough to realize that, like a dog with a car, if I actually did catch a Marsha, I wouldn’t be sure what to do with her.
Well, okay, that’s a lie, but there are limits even to my vulgarity.
The point is, I fall for the wrong type of woman (ostensibly “straight,” pretty-pretty princess types with self-esteem issues/substance abuse problems/a bad case of the marrieds) and as a result, I either end up rejected and wearing a full helmet to bed on the off chance I expire in my sleep and cats infiltrate via an unlocked window, or involved with Señorita Hottie VonNutjob, grinding my teeth as she struggles with the Tv Guide crossword or tries to convince me to watch The CW. Neither of these alternatives is the desirable one, and I fear that as I spend less time dating and more time discouraged and becoming inured to a life of solitude, I will become “that” lady – the one who is so ridiculously picky she dumps someone for the way they chew or the arrangment of their shoes in the closet; so eager to maintain the order of her “just-so” home and life that she’s forgotten how making room for someone else helps you grow as a person.
It’s like going to prison for a long stretch – eventually, you get uncomfortable without the walls around you, keeping you safe (well, safe from everything but face-eating cats).
Seriously, though, would it kill you to put the toilet paper on the roll so that the sheets flow from the top?
And don’t get me started on turning off the car with everything else turned on. Hear that grinding sound? I just lost another molar.
Seriously, though, I KNOW all about the “stop expecting true love to look or sound or feel a certain way” school of thought…I’m an apostate member of that sect, actually. Many are the friends who say to me “I found my true love when I stopped looking – it was as if the Universe/God/The Flying Spaghetti Monster sent him/her/them (you know who you are, you hedonistic bastards) to me!”
Well, elitist bitch and sardonic malcontent that I am, I’ve stopped looking. Come on, Universe, show me what you’ve got – I’m hyperverbal, hyperintellectual, and Hypercolor™ (although it fades if you put me in the dryer on high), and I’ve just about given up on love in this land of lowest-common-denominators and Wal-Mart worship. There’s only one thing that can free the butterfly of my wounded soul from its chrysalis of bitterness and regret, and her name is Robin Meade. So get crackin’ on that, would you, Higher Power?
I’m keeping the helmet, though.