sizing up the wares

I met a little 20-year-old boy the other day I wanted to butter up and eat on a biscuit. He was a certified, signed, sealed, delivered CPT. (On a semi-related note, when does the discussion of eating someone on a hot, fluffy biscuit go from sexual harassment to quasi-endearing? Because I feel like it's somewhere in the 60- to 70-year range. I'm not wishing time away or anything, but please trust me on this: when this behavior becomes age approps I will be taking full advantage of that license.)

Naturally I did a little light Facebook stalking to read about the CPT's life goals, his dreams, deepest inner thoughts and aspirations and also just do a quick, super-brief, just minuscule check of his relationship status. And subsequently spent a few minutes confirming that I was, in fact, better looking than his girlfriend.

I was momentarily devastated by this discovery, but not because I'd fallen instantly and rapturously in love with this kid. I'll take this opportunity to mention again -- he was 20 years old. That's a little young, even for someone with my track record. The devastation is more like the mental collapse of an internal Jenga-block tower of CRAZY.

Part of the problem is that I'm a woman. (I wanted to say "the whole problem," but again, I don't want to throw y'all under a bus like that. I don't think I'm completely alone in what I'm about to share with you, but I'll only blame 60 percent of it on my gender. Okay, okay. 50.)

The moment I meet a vaguely attractive guy, a Mouse Trap-like chain reaction of thoughts is triggered into motion. Only there's no cheese at the end, because there IS NO END, because if there were it would just be My Crazy, and that is something that cannot be contained.

Ahem. The thoughts go a little something like this: "He's cute. Is he cute? He's cute. Yeah, he's cute. We'd have cute kids. Is he marriage material? Is he married? No ring. Good hair. What if we DID get married, wouldn't this be the best how-we-met story, like, EVER? And we'd have cute kids. Yeah. I wonder if he's liberal. I wonder if he'd want to get married outside. I wonder if he'd want to live in the suburbs or stay in Midtown. I bet he'd look good in a tux. Maybe we'll get married outside. Maybe we'll serve mini-desserts. As long as one of them had peanut butter. Mmm, I could go for some peanut -- WHAT IF HE'S ALLERGIC TO PEANUTS? Couldn't I kill him just by making out with him!?"

Now. If you think THAT was crazy -- and it was, let's not kid ourselves -- wait until you hear about the conflicting train of thought that left Chicago at exactly the same time going exactly the same speed and YOU tell ME how I'm supposed to avoid a collision.

It goes something like this:

"They always say you'll meet the one when you're not looking! When you're least expecting it! But now you're thinking about the vague possibility that he could be the one! WHY ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT THIS YOU ARE RUINING EVERYTHING!"

Whew. Being a woman is effing exhausting.

And the thing is, I wish desperately that I could shut this part of my brain up. The part that hones in on every man in a 50-mile-radius and puts a target over his head until it determines whether or not he meets the minimum specs for matrimony. I wish I could just meet someone with a Y chromosome and not experience a mental running of the bulls. Because not only am I being chased by frantic, angry animals (with HORNS), I'm wearing white pants. NO ONE looks good in white pants.

But alas, my subconscious is a Jewish grandmother. YOU'RE TWENTY FIVE, DEAH. Ya nevah gonna find a nice boy in those shoes. And that hair. Quick, grab him by the legs before he runs away!

At least I know she would totally approve of eating a cute boy on a biscuit like a slice of country ham.

Well. Maybe not ham.


cheers,
elizabeth