I’m reading a book about finding love. No, it’s not some self-help kind of thing, nor is it the sparkly awesomeness of Lizzo, the woman everyone wishes they had as their best friend right now. Nope. This thing is statistics, mostly, and it talks about how if you compromise on what you *think* are essential qualities, you’ll stack the odds in your favor. (You’re wrong about what you think is essential, also.)
Try this: There’s only one Hugh Jackman, right? You want to score Hugh Jackman, well, good luck with that. Maybe you could look in the “not Hugh Jackman” pool. Your odds are way better. Get yourself 58% Hugh Jackman instead. It’s Hugh Jackman enough.
I’d already decided I was not going to rule anyone out based on looks alone, I mean, who am I? Mrs. Hugh Jackman? This book just underscored my resolve.
Three messaged me, he was polite and very clear that he was a low pressure boundary respecting kind of guy. He was not a looker, but he had a cute dog. We made a tentative plan to meet late next week.
Thing is, I hadn’t properly read his profile. I decided to revisit it, coffee in hand, and read for comprehension. It was chockablock with things I make fun of. (What? I’m only human. If you like bulky Utilikilt wearing guys who go to Burning Man, I can hook you up.)
“You could lighten up and go have coffee,” I told myself. “Maybe the Utilikilt only shows up at the Scottish Highland Games. Maybe he keeps his pants on at Burning Man.”
I’m trying. I’m really trying.
Then I got to this: “My friends say I’m totally fuckable.”
I cancelled the date.