Picky, Picky, Picky...

When I was talking to my mother yesterday, as it often does, the topic of my love life…okay, the topic of the complete and utter lack of anything that could even euphemistically be referred to as my love life came up.
She mentioned, though there was no need, that my dad thinks that I’m just “too picky.”
This is nothing new, and my dad is hardly the only person to put forth that theory.
It’s a theory that I don’t happen to believe, as it’s a theory that’s lacking empirical support.
I don’t think I’m especially picky, though considering that I married my first girlfriend, and considering how that turned out, I think it’s only wise for me to be at least a little picky.
Do I have a sort of intellectual standard, a concept of “Miss Right” that I judge women against? Of course; everyone has an ideal. Do I set the standard too high? I don’t think so.
But, for the sake of argument, let’s say that I do. Let’s say I have incredibly unrealistic standards set so impossibly high that no woman on the face of the earth could possibly meet them.
Okay, so what? Well, presumably I would have to set my standards lower in order to meet a woman.
Okay, consider that done. I now have no standards whatsoever. I’ll take absolutely anything I can get. Over fifty? I’ll take you. 200+ pounds? Give me some of that.
So. I’ve now set my sights on a 300 pound septuagenarian with no teeth, a glass eye, a hare lip, one leg, and a humpback. Ooh, baby!
And of course we’ll have a wonderful relationship based entirely on settling for whatever we can get our hands on.
But what’s this? She’s not interested. Hmm, it seems that she’s too picky.
Damn! Why didn’t anyone consider that I’m not the only part of the equation? I thought that if I stopped being picky the first woman I saw, through my no longer jaundiced eye, would automatically be interested in me.
Honestly, even if I am picky, the odds are that I’m nowhere near as picky as most women are.
Beyond that, if you’re not at least a little bit particular you then fall into the desperate category, and if there’s one thing I’ve managed to learn it’s that women have noses more keen than those of bloodhounds when it comes to smelling desperation.
Besides, pickiness really isn’t the problem. The actual problem is that I just don’t encounter available women.
Hmm, okay, maybe that makes me too picky; maybe I shouldn’t let things like wedding rings, or baby carriages, or the fact that a woman appears to be dating the entire Redskins’ offensive line get in my way. This whole “being available” thing is jus too impossible a standard to hold women to, right?
Just because a woman walks into a restaurant with her husband it doesn’t mean that she has to leave with him, right? After all, the handful of women I actually do see seem to be housewives, so at least some of them must be of the desperate variety.
In the end, though, the fact is that my pickiness or lack thereof isn’t the issue. It’s all about opportunity, of which there’s virtually none in my life (and that’s not likely to change), and compatibility.
After this much time spent alone becoming increasingly isolated and weird, I would say that my potential for being compatible with anyone is at an all-time low.
But there I go being picky again. I mean, expecting compatibility? Picky, picky, picky...