Romance: A Suburban Myth?

I live in a little town called San Francisco, maybe you’ve heard of it? San Francisco’s a great town: our baseball stadium is better than yours (even if our team isn’t: thanks Barry Zito), cheap gourmet eats compensate for exorbitant rents, there’s an art gallery on every corner, and the San Francisco police department no longer arrests people for carrying small amounts of weed. And did I mention the shopping, ladies? You name it we got it; we showcase everything from global brands to underground local designers and nine times out of ten what you buy is beneficial to the environment. However, such a progressive, nurturing city is hindered by one debilitating deficiency for us single gals–gay men.

Let me take a step back here and clarify myself before you call the ACLU.Gay men are God’s gift to women; Metropolitan Singles could not exist without them. My Gays remind me that I’m not only competing with other women in the high stakes game of Fabulousness, but with fiercely stylish men as well. There’s just one problem with this fit of competition that seems to consume the city at times: the game is rigged, the house always wins, and it’s sexist. You see, in San Francisco gay men outnumber heterosexual men by a fairly depressing margin and since the male population is divided in two, that leaves single heterosexual women two strikes down before they ever reach the plate for their at-bat. If I had a nickel for every time I passed a couple in the street holding hands and cooing affectionately at one another and thought to myself, “Really? She’s with THAT guy?” well, let’s just say I’d have a lot of nickels with which to tip my neighborhood Starbucks barista.

San Francisco: The Glittering Dating Mirage

The caliber of women in this town is astounding at times; the caliber of men is often times disheartening at best and flat out depressing at worst. It’s almost as if mediocre men can sense the desperation emanating from the wading pool of available women which surround them, and since they know it’s a sellers market their nonchalance is pervasive (and oh so alluring, damn it). On the flip-side, smart, motivated, eclectic, beautiful and chic–albeit in a quirky Cali way–women settle for fixer-uppers (if we’re being kind) in a bizarre attempt to hedge their bets against some misguided fear of being alone. Some of us have higher standards than others; mine are impossibly high, and what this amounts to is a continual influx and rotation of potential suitors and love interests. That’s right, I’m proud to say I’ve been privy to and a primary player in the shit-show that passes for dating in the City by the Bay. As one of my closest buddies once remarked, I’ve traveled a fair amount of distance but haven’t racked up any mileage, and that’s thanks in part to my standards and in part to the despicable offerings the universe has offered me over the years. And since I operate under the assumption that misery loves company, the concept for Metropolitan Singles was forged. What you’ll find here in the coming months is a play by play of all the comic tragedies that befall my friends and me as we unsteadily navigate the urban dating landscape one bad date at a time, all in the search for something worth wild. So please stay tuned, and to entice you to read again I’ll leave you with a little teaser:

What does a girl do with this situation: After a night of heavy drinking (damn your delicious blue ribbon, Pabst), Alex woke up in the bed of a marginally talented local musician who she had avoided doing the deed with the night before. He clearly had intended the night to turn out differently, but was in no mood to force the issue while she was drunk. As they stirred early in the morning before work and were playfully cuddling each other, the Musician turns to Alex and asks, “So…you want to have sex?” Alex replies, uncomfortably, “Uhm…not right now, I…uhm…I’m going to be late for work.” To which he responds, “Oh come on, I’ll be real quick: in and out.”

If that isn’t romance, I don’t know what is.