Looking for Love in a Ben & Jerry’s

Happy (almost) Valentine’s Day. Or Singles Awareness Day. Whichever you and your current relationship status prefer.

This weekend, lovebirds around the country will get all schmoopy-faced and feel the pressure as they wine, dine and romance each other at least enough to make a big splash on social media, where they’ll proclaim to the world just how lucky in love they are. Because if it’s on Instagram and Facebook, it’s true.

The other approximately 50.2% of Americans who are single will either thank the heavens that the pressure is off or commiserate alone with a pan of brownies and pint of Ben & Jerry’s—or, like me, just shrug and yawn. I’ve gone from single to dating to married to separated to divorced and back to single again, and have experienced every relationship status possible on Valentine’s Day. To say that it’s just another day to me is an understatement. I currently have a date scheduled with the unmatched socks at the bottom of my laundry basket (I will find each one a mate, make no mistake) and a 6:30 rendezvous with my favorite bottle of Pinot and bagged kale salad from Costco. If that’s not amoré, I don’t know what is.

Sarcasm aside, singlehood is on the upswing in our country. Despite the proliferation of online dating sites, there are more singles than married people in the U.S. today. This could be why the big movie opening this weekend is called, “How to Be Single.” Singles have more options for potential partners than ever before, and yet more people are remaining unattached. Why? I have no idea—but here’s one thought: Maybe there are too many options. Maybe in our Tinder-happy, SMS-obsessed, digital dating, e-harmonistic society, singles are thinking, Why settle on Bachelor #1 when I haven’t yet swiped Bachelors #2, #3 and #4 right?

I can tell you that I have amassed more crazy dating stories than I can shake Cupid’s stick (er, arrow) at, so something weird is in the water. In fact, I write a blog about them. One day I will write a book. For now, I’ll drop a few here.*

Because whether you’re sharing the love with your schmoopy this weekend or looking for love at the bottom of your Ben & Jerry’s, everyone likes stories that make them feel better about their own lives. You’re welcome.

The “It’s 30 Years Later and I’m Still Dating a Frat Boy” One

I went out with Jim one night when I was visiting Chicago. At the beginning of our date, he appeared to be a nice 49-year-old insurance professional with gorgeous salt-and-pepper hair and The World’s Most Charming Dimples. By the end, he had me back at the Sig Ep house, smelling like last night’s keg and dancing to The Go Gos in some sticky unidentified liquid on the tiled floor. Metaphorically speaking.

Me: What do you want to do tonight, Jim?

Him: I dunno. I like beer?

Me: Ok, but what do you want to do?

Him: Drink beer. LOL.

Me: Anything else?

Him: I like pizza. And AC DC.

Me: But we’re in Chicago . . . I mean, do you like live music? Museums? Willis Tower? Navy Pier? Comedy clubs?

Him. Nope. Not really. Pizza and beer sounds good to me. And then a little making out would be nice (cheesy wink).

I often meet people at this stage of life and wonder, why is he single? Jim was not one of them.

The “I’m a Cougar and Didn’t Even Know It” One

I hired 24-year-old David to help me in the gym twice a week. He was a young assistant football coach looking to make a few bucks by training on the side, and I was a not-so-young sedentary professional hoping to get my blood flowing. Stop it: I mean in a purely athletic sense. David and I hit it off—athletically speaking—and developed a successful client/trainer relationship. Until his 22-year-old girlfriend met me one evening, then made him fire me two weeks later. “I need to stop training you. It’s putting a strain on my personal life. Your use of winky faces in texts has been inappropriate. And my girlfriend thinks you’re pretty.” I’m old enough to be either of their mothers. I wanted to ground them both for being so ridiculous, but I just said, “Okay, I understand.” And I saved his text for those days when I want to feel like Stacy’s mom. 

The “You’ve Officially Freaked Me Out Before Our First Date” One

John and I met online and struck up a friendly conversation. He worked in sports and had been a trainer for the San Francisco Giants for 11 years, so I was immediately intrigued—and he didn’t have a 22-year-old girlfriend, so I was in the clear. He was, in fact, a widower, which endeared me to him immediately. We talked one night for about two hours, and planned a date for the following weekend. Then he texted me the next morning. And called to leave a voice mail. Then found me on Facebook. Then texted. Again. Then left a post on my Facebook page. Then texted. Then Facebooked. Then called. I’m not sure it was even noon yet when I responded, “This might be a little too much too soon.” Even from the Warriors game in Oakland that night, John texted me:

“Please call me tomorrow. I have a break at 11:00, can you call me then? I really want to hear your voice. Just thinking about that makes me smile.”

He’s sitting courtside, within yards of Steph Curry, and he’s worried about me calling him the next morning? The stalker vibe was too strong, and I had to shut this one down.

Next.

So, bachelor number-whatever-the-hell-you-are: Are you old enough to be my not-son, ready to move out of your fraternity house (metaphorically speaking) and willing to have a first date before naming our children? Or grandchildren? If so, text me. Swipe me right. Snapchat me. I have a basket of socks and a bottle of Pinot, and we can spend Sunday being awkwardly aware of our singleness together.

For those of you attached folks, deliver well on social media, please. I will be stalking enjoying your love stories. You are the ones who give humanity hope that life is indeed worth living, and happily ever after is more than just a fairy tale. No pressure. Of course.

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty.