Like many women in the city, every day I face the disheartening realization that for every fresh-faced, career-driven, put-together, on-the-ball, college-educated, kept-it-tight, twenty-something-year-old one of us in this city, there are about ninety million (I’m confidant this is an exact statistic here) knuckle-dragging, chin-missing, mouth-breathing, hairline-receding, beer-gut swinging, middle-managing, men-boys trying to pass as the datable population of DC.
Usually I notice this most often on my Metro commute into work, where I’m torn between boarding Red Line and throwing myself in front of it, but there’s a more recent event that drove this point home that I’d like to share.
I was floored when it came to my attention that a fellow I know, an emotionally-temperamental, mentally-unsound, physically-unfit (we're talking, like, life expectancy of yesterday type health issues), sad sack, who in any other city, and by all practical standards, would be considered absolutely undatable, had in fact gotten more women in the sack than Rohypnol.
So there I was mid rage stroke thinking about the unjustness of this all when I was pulled back from the brink by a flash of inspiration and a half bottle of wine. It occurred to me that my most recent experience with a man was the screaming match with a pizza delivery boy prior to stealing his car keys (no one tailgates in my neighborhood bee-otch) and that to solve the mystery of DC dating, I'd need outside counsel.
No comments:
Post a Comment