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 again.
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 yet.
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 haven’t lived.)
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.