*Author’s note: This was written almost a year ago, when I made my first half-hearted attempt at starting a blog and then quit after one post. Since I was too lazy to write a new one today– and since almost everyone is going to be too busy watching the Superbowl to read it anyway– here’s to recycling old stuff. Enjoy!
The other day as I was walking down the street, a homeless man made some vulgar comment. I can’t remember what the exact comment was, but I do remember the shattering realization that it was the first time I had been properly propositioned in months.
I read a really official-sounding article once in a tabloid that said that the average woman gets hit on eight times a day. Eight times. For an average woman. Now, I’m no math whiz (in fact, my high school algebra teacher’s exact words to me were that I should probably just marry for money), but if the average woman gets innuendo-ed eight times a day, and I get a throwaway comment once every three months or so, then I am about… 720 times less attractive than the average woman. Again, we’re talking average here– not even 720 times less attractive than a hot woman, the reality of which I was already deeply aware. Which begs the question– what exactly am I holding out for?
As a child, a combination of Disney movies and effusive but undeserved praise from my parents forever skewed my perception of what my romantic future would bring. There would be singing and dancing and overlooking of my propensity for talking to woodland creatures, all because I was the prettiest, the smartest, the bestest in the land. When young men did not behave accordingly– i.e., monosyllabic grunts instead of cheerful singing; groping on public transportation instead of frolicking dancing; wide-eyed looks of terror instead of benign acceptance– I was not deterred. Even when what I saw in the mirror resembled less a Sleeping Beauty or a Snow White than a Miss Piggy, I willfully believed it all to be pure fancy on my part. Because either I was a good, beautiful person, destined to have good, beautiful things in my life– or my parents are liars.
Turns out? My parents are liars.
It’s not that I blame them, not really. We’ve all been in that position where a friend asks if her mullet/Jheri-curl haircut looks good, or your pregnant sister asks if she looks bloated, or your boyfriend wants to know what you would choose if it really came down to it– him, or the doughnuts– and of course you lie. Imagine how much worse it must be for parents when they come face-to-face with their chubby, bespectacled, greasy-haired, acne-infested progeny who wants to know why she hasn’t met her prince charming yet. I guess I should have had some clue when my mother gave me that motivational poster about inner beauty (see below), but I was in denial. I hadn’t yet come face-to-face with the hard truth that I’m 720 times uglier than most other people I know.
So who am I to turn up my nose at an admittedly smelly, but willing, man of a homeless persuasion? He may not be what I always envisioned for myself, but then apparently my self-perception is all kinds of wonky. And I’m sure there are many benefits to dating the unemployed. No job, so he’ll always have time for me. I’m pretty much guaranteed he’ll be faithful, unless the bag lady by the convenience store decides to splurge on some soap and a razor. I won’t have to shower as often because, hey, beggars and choosers and all that jazz. We can share our mutual love of free food, and I’m willing to bet he’s an expert on cheap liquor. And okay, granted, the comments he made about “the girls” were less than gentlemanly, but you know what? Hobo Joe’s a straight shooter, and I can’t fault him for that.
That settles it. The next time I get hit on by a homeless gentleman– which based on my history will probably be in approximately 90 days, give or take– I’m going for it. ‘Cause at least someone’s interested.