If I had an online dating profile, it would say this:
According to mirrors, I am perfectly proportioned – with a waspish waist and breasts about the size of big Seville oranges. I’ve got massive blue eye-balls, cropped hair and a small pointy nose. All of which combine to make me look not entirely unlike a human version of the cartoon fairy Tinkerbell. I’m solvent and sociable. I laugh all the time (but not in an annoying giggly way). I’m witty and cutting and clever and funny and, on good days, I commit random acts of kindness. For example, I once gave a tramp £20, when the sum total of my monetary wealth was £35. I also like sunsets, puppies, books and great big houses. Message me, if any of this takes your fancy.
And it would all be true.
I’m a catch.
But single men do not seem to have noticed this. Hence my regular, increasingly desperate, posts on this blog.
When I ask my friends why I am so often overlooked, stood up and ignored by the males of the species, they usually offer one of two responses: ‘I don’t know babe, you probably need to get out more. Have another whisky’ or, ‘it’s because you intimidate them. Men are scared of strong, beautiful, intelligent women. Fuck ‘em. Have another whisky.’
As much as it would flatter me to believe the latter of these two reassurances were true, I have a sneaking suspicion that my friends are talking bollocks – as they occasionally do, especially after whisky. Especially when I’m approaching the level of maudlin that requires curling into a ball, choking on self-pitying sobs and playing Usher’s ‘U Got it Bad’ on repeat.
My rudimentary understanding of evolution tells me that it would not make good sense – propagation of the species wise – if men were sexually intimidated by qualities that, in the wild, would ensure the survival of their offspring. (In addition to the above, I would definitely be able to maul death any predators who tried it on – using only my incisors and my bright red talons.)
But, if I accept what my intellect is telling me, the consequences are potentially dire. It would mean having to admit that I possess flaws, visible only to the male eye (and potentially to the female eye as well, if my suspicions are right and my friends really are lying) – which would mean undertaking the faff of discovering and addressing said flaws, so that I can get a boyfriend. Which, let’s admit it, is a thing neither you nor I really want. Think about it: I’d have to abandon this blog, immediately. And then what would you do on your lunch break? Or on the evening commute? Or first thing in the morning, when you wake up and just have to check these pages because I’m all you can think about?
And that’s why it’s been necessary to convince myself that my friends are correct. I do intimidate men. Of course I do – how could I not, have you seen me?
All the signs are there. The way they back off as soon as they realise that they might have to impress me, in real life, with wit and expensive cognac. The way they all – even the gay ones – make a beeline for the door as soon as I start on a monologue about how, yes, I attempt to read Simone de Beauvoir once a year, but that doesn’t mean I can’t engage with shallow popular culture (and don’t they think Pocahontas is definitely the best looking Disney princess? And isn’t it weird how, even though that’s the case, I’d still rather be Ariel?). The way they frequently approach me in bars and say, ‘you know, your mate is really good-looking’ – and how quite a few of them who I’d consider friends say things to me when we’re drunk (and, occasionally, when we’re sober) along the lines of, ‘I’d sleep with you Kate. but – fucking hell! – I don’t want to be your boyfriend.’
What other explanation could there be? I’ve looked in the mirror and deep inside my soul, and – it’s clear – all the men are gagging for me, but too are damn scared of rejection to act upon their instincts.
Who would even want to date a member of such a pathetic species?
And that is why I’m single. Obviously.
*Image from photostock at freedigitalphotos.net.