Once upon a time, when I still had blonde hair and listened to Raffi, I had my very first boyfriend a young Kindergarten Casanova named Christopher. A full grade ahead of me, Christopher and I met each other on the playground, and were immediately attracted to each other”s skillful monkey bar maneuvers. For the short time that we were together Christopher and I was quite the playground pair, socializing on the swing sets, picking dandelions and playing TV tag together. And had Christopher not left me behind for the First Grade, I am quite convinced that our Recess romance might even have lasted longer. But that is beside the point.
Perhaps I am overly naive in assuming that the ideal Prince Charming-esque companion called Mr. Right actually exists outside of Disney films or faded watercolor childhood memories. But seriously, on a campus of roughly 35,000 students, one would think that even a Mr. Remotely Right is not too much to ask for. Oh, woe is me.
From classrooms to coffee shops, from house parties to frat parties, my extensive Ann Arbor search has ended with minimal and highly unsatisfactory results. The Friday night hook-up or the Saturday sleepover gets quite old and moldy after the first 500 times.
Firm in my refusal to grow up to be the neighborhood cat lady, who hands out raisins on Halloween and keeps company with her garden gnomes, I decided to swallow my pride, and continue the search for Ann Arbor”s finest.
For a smart, sophisticated, and oh-so sassy someone who was dealt a decent genetic hand, how is it possible that nine times out of 10, no matter how the dateable deck is shuffled, I draw the Joker from the singles scene stack of cards? Never an Ace, and rarely a King, bad luck would have it that the majority of men that I stumble upon, as well as the ones who stumble on me, are only interested in two Friday night follies: beer and bl oh, never mind.
As the old needlepoint wisdom suggests, “A watched pot never boils.” I used to buy into those passive old wives” tales and hope that when I least expected it, opportunities would just begin to brew and bubble up to the surface of the couple-concocting cauldron. Screw that! Does waiting in the kitchen ever get anyone a dozen roses or even some stale candy hearts for Valentine”s Day?
I have steered clear of the stovetop for far too long and Chef Fate is not the gourmet she claims to be. What”s the deal? I don”t think I missed some magic recipe disclosed in “Martha Stewart”s Living” or broadcasted on “The View.” Did I forget to turn on the heat? Do my curvaceously coiled burners simply lack a sufficient spark to light anyone”s flame?
Some folks might argue that 19 is hardly the age to press the panic button and plan for la vida lonely, but when cosmetic counters chuck samples of eye cream at you like you”re some sort of freebie-fetching Shar Pei, a girl has to wonder how many good years she really has left. How much longer before the effects of gravity overpower the underwire? And how much longer before considering “love” to be just another four-lettered profanity? I hope I will never know the answer to either of these questions.
So, Self, what should be my current course of action? Sweet perfume and sweet nothings have left me with nothing. An inexplicable glitch in my Mr. Right-radar keeps pointing me in a nowhere direction flashing, “Head HOME, again, ALONE,” so much so that Macaulay Culkin is looking like a viable option. Okay, a craving for a Culkin is a definite crisis point. (Lightbulb!) Hmm, use my celebrity status as Weekend columnist extraordinaire to set myself up on a blind date?
Call me crazy. Call me dramatic. Call me desperate if you”d like. But if you happen to be an available and adventurous male (18 and older, but younger than my father) and if you think that you may be the Mr. Remotely Right that I just cannot seem to locate JUST CALL ME!
To respond to this extended personal ad and go on a blind date with Meredith, (no, this is not a joke), email her at firstname.lastname@example.org. Meredith”s blind dating escapades will be published in her column as part of Weekend, Etc.”s tribute to Valentine”s