My mom’s other sisters have been
equally involved in trying to help me find my one true love. Aunt Margie has
been sending workmen to my apartment for the last month with false claims of
leaky pipes and malfunctioning kitchen appliances. I caved and went out with
one of the plumbers, but our relationship only lasted two dates. The guy loved
to talk about his work and honestly, there’s only so much banter about clogged
toilets I can stand. And during dinner, too.
Unbeknownst to me, Aunt Sheila
started a Tinder profile in my name. She was swiping right, left, up, and down
trying to find me a man. I went out with one guy believing he was my aunt’s
neighbor. Things were going well until he mentioned a conversation we’d had
online about blowup dolls.
That’s when I discovered he didn’t
know who Sheila was and that she told him I’d be up for a threesome as long as
the third party wasn’t human. I’m not sure I’ll ever look at her the same way
In addition to vowing to never go
out on another setup, I’m determined to take my dating life into my own hands.
I also decided to change my type (see item six on my list). As a lifelong
admirer of working-class men—there’s something so fundamentally manly about a
tight T-shirt covered in axle grease, grass stains, or whatever (I refuse to
consider what was on the plumber’s T-shirt)—it stands to reason I must now
avoid them at all costs.
In a bid to attract a different kind
of guy, I decided to channel Melanie Griffith in Working Girl. I’m
upgrading from a slick-haired, cheating, lying Alec Baldwin to a sweet,
respectful Harrison Ford—à la Jack Trainer (if you’ve never seen this golden
oldie romcom, do so now).
After New Year’s, I went out and
blew a fortune on clothes I figured a classy woman would wear. No more plunging
necklines and tight pants for me. From now on it’s modest dresses with
conservative heels—no more drag queen shoes. I’ve also dialed down the amount
of makeup I wear, and I’ve swapped out certain phrases in my vocabulary. My
penchant for colorful language has been redirected. I now say things like, “Oh,
dear, my word, and for heaven’s sake.”
So far the only men I’ve attracted
have been a pair of nice young men who wondered if I’d heard about the Book
of Mormon. But fear not, it’s early days. I’m sure there’s hope for me
While turning off the cold water tap
with my left foot and upping the hot with my right, I decide I can’t keep
waiting for the man of my dreams to show up out of thin air. If I’m serious
about changing my luck—and I am—I have to be willing to go out with someone who
doesn’t make my heart beat like Ricky Ricardo playing the bongos. (I don’t care
what generation you’re from, if you haven’t watched every episode of I Love Lucy by the time you’re twenty, you
My luck might be about to change.
Tomorrow, Sumner Livingston, the fundraiser my
boss hired for the foundation I work for, is going to pop by the office for his
first meeting with us. I googled him earlier today, and I have to say the guy’s
got potential. Clean cut, classic good looks, and a steady job at his family’s
company. He grew up in Forest Hills, which means he’s likely well-educated and
probably doesn’t catcall women on the street.
I couldn’t find any evidence of a significant other, so I’m putting him at the top of my list of potential future life partners. It’s a short list, consisting of him and Jack Trainer. Being that Jack Trainer is fictional, let’s hope Sumner is single and into me.