I am flummoxed, cantankerous and somewhat disillusioned about my matchmaker’s most recent pick of the crop. Having met me in person and listened to a singular diatribe of feedback on my previous 12 or so dates, my ladies who (it’s just) lunch exasperated me with their choice in Jeff…
…Who HUNTS MOUNTAIN LIONS, lives in ALBERTVILLE, which is approximately 45.76 miles from anything remotely awesomesauce, LOVES the win-less Vikings, has NO urge for worldly travel and speaks in an energy-less mOnOtone about his landscaping business. Not to mention that Jeff was slightly to moderately zaftig and glabrous. (That’s a
nice clever sneaky way of saying he was overweight and on the verge of a severe balding attack. Don’t hate me.)
The date had so much potential, too, despite the fact that it took place at P.F. Chang’s in Maple Grove, which is approximately and scientifically (I’ve measured) the most furtherest location possible from where I work. Dressed to the nines in the perfect fall dress from Banana Republic’s Mad Men collection, ultra-fresh-for-autumn Essie pewter nail polish and a new Coach clutch, I had a mind brimming with NPR stories and the latest in new music — and was pumped for a night out.
Determined to rid myself of the horrible habit of assuming exactly everything in the metro area is ten minutes away, I slid onto the highway a good fifteen minutes from T-time. (I still arrived ten minutes late after a wrong turn, but don’t worry about it.)
Jeff and I split greasy, faux Asian apps and jumped from conversation topic to conversation topic in hopes of landing on safe, neutral ground. He was ambivalent to my cries for environmentally-friendly permeable driveways and rain gardens, and shrugged off my accusations regarding his murderous hunting habits. Don’t get me wrong — it went both ways. He had no response to my comments on Steve Jobs (legend), Occupy Wall Street (inspiring), Obama’s jobs plan (needed), the latest version of National Geographic on orphan baby elephants (heartbreaking) or the new Jayhawks album (dreamy).
Erudite and bow-tied-bedecked philosophers will often remind us that life ’tis the journey, not the destination. But, I daresay, sirs, that this is wholly inapplicable to the subject of love. In the dear, sweet, verdant land of 10,000 lakes, I’m slowly sharpening my belief that the smart, handsome, passionate, cultured, hilarious, single thirtysomething Twin Citian gentleman is near dinosaur-like extinction. (Side note: Please feel free to go ahead and prove me wrong.) But, on the hopeful, sunshiny days, I stay true to my belief that if I am patient, open and kind, I will one day tap my toes and Mr. Wonderful will be there at my beckoning — equipped for my idiosyncratic personality and complicated, bleeding heart.
But, hey, that’s just about enough curmudgeonry for one sitting. I shan’t lose sight of the greater things in life — family, peace, equality and superbeautiful fresh flower arrangements — and will tuck myself into my pillow-top, heavenly bed with The Shipping News, the Cults and the ever-hopeful promise of tomorrow.