So Long, Meet Market

For the last two weeks, I have been spending my Thursday nights on a Family Single’s Night. You heard me.

I went out with my sister, my brother and his ex-wife. Uh-huh. Yes I did say his ex-wife. To a mix and mingle at the Amsterdam Rhino. And I have got to say that it is a good time to be a lesbian, ladies, because the wimmins was reprezen’in. The event was “top heavy” meaning that the women far-outnumbered the men. Those that were there were well dressed, well-coiffed, well put-together and possessing all-around confidence and sass-a-frass.

The men?

Sneakered, hockey-jerseyed, scruffied and frankly, a little lost. Not all of them, mind you. The old men looked good. Which is another thing? Didn’t we tick off age brackets? How did so many forty and fifty year-old men end up with all of us thirty-something women? Heck, I’d be feeln’ much happier if I was in my fifties at this same party. But the male thirty-somethings. Where were they? Oh pardon me—the good-looking, well-put-together thirty-somethings?

Nope. Not us lucky ladies. For us, it was a sad and motley crue of rejects. The energy in the room was one of desperation and loneliness. And how’s a girl going to get her groove on with that kind of dismal and feeble air?

I did manage to find someone whom interested me and struck up a conversation with him, only to cut my losses after his eyes began to dart busily around the room. Clearly, no interest here.

And I also got a phone number. From a girl. I couldn’t resist telling her how fabulous she looked and how much I loved her necklace. Turns out, she organizes a single women’s group and loves to drink and party. She was from Newfoundland. So the night was not a complete loss.

After about two hours when I realized I was actually cramping my brother’s free-wheelin’ style (being one of the few good looking men in the room), I abandoned all hope.

I went to meet my friend P-diddy at an establishment where there was no Singles Night but where apparently, all the single men were. You see, ladies, you don’t need to pay twenty bucks to go to an event: you just need to show up at a pub when there’s a hockey game on. And let’s note here that not a hockey jersey was to be seen, the energy was not one of desperation and I didn’t even have to resort to my old stand-by pick-up: stepping on a guy’s toe.