Alone All By Myself

I hate going on dates. I hate hate hate going on dates. I'd rather sweeten my tea with pulverized glass than go on one more awful date. The idea of even attempting to have one more one-sided "conversation" with one more one-word-answer manbot is so excruciating to me that I suddenly understand the logic behind that show Snapped on Oxygen. Here's an example of a somewhat recent exchange I had during one of my more painful dates:

ME: So, then you like what you do?
HIM: Yeah.
(Silence.)
ME: Great. So, what inspired you to go into that industry in the first place?
(More Silence.)
ME: Did someone encourage you to go into that field?
HIM: Dad.
ME: Your dad?
HIM: Yeah.
ME: Great. That's great. So, do you and your dad work together?
HIM: Yeah.
ME: Really? Oh, that's nice.
HIM: Yeah.
ME: Do you like working with him?
(Again, Silence.)
HIM: Sometimes.
ME: Sometimes? Why's that?
HIM: (shrug)

Anyway, the date wound down with this:

ME: Yeah, I don't think this is going to work out.
HIM: No?
ME: No. I actually feel like I'm alone on this date. And, to be quite honest with you, ______, I don't really need to date you to be alone. I can be alone all by myself.
HIM: Okay.
ME: Yeah, I actually prefer being alone all by myself.
HIM: (shrug)

I am 33 and single, and, frankly, the only times I wish I had a man in my life are a) when I'm having car trouble b) when I have a lot of parcels and/or bags to carry while I'm shopping and c) when I see men walking around with their kids hoisted up on their shoulders. Were it not for these three disparate moments in time, I'd be fine. I'd scarcely consider pairing up. The problem is a) lately my car has been having quite a bit of trouble b) I always seem to have a shitload to carry, and, c) to make matters worse, I work with kids, so I see lots of men carrying their kids up on their goddamn shoulders.

I don't like to gripe about men because it's basically been done a gazillion times over by many other women who do it so much better than I ever could but, seriously, what the hell?

If the men I date aren't legally mute, they're talking non-stop...about sex. In odious detail. They don't even know my last name, but they want to know what color my underwear is. So, when they ask, I tell them.

"It's black," I say.
"Ooooo, black, sexy," the horny bastards reply.
"Yeah, and guess what?" I say. "You're never going to see it."

Not unless I also tell them the style, the designer, and the size of my underwear so they can then go and peruse the lingerie section of Bloomingdales on their own...the pervs that they are.

Now, I cannot speak for all women on this subject, but I can speak for myself. The sex talk does not work. The no talk does not work. Why can't the interest a man expresses in a woman be, I don't know, sweet? A respectful, yet charmingly playful, effort toward genuinely getting to know the woman because he genuinely likes the woman. You don't want to hold her hand unless it's immediately going to lead to nakedness? Somehow that just doesn't seem right to me. If it really is only about sex across the board then, really, I'm in trouble. One guy proudly told me that he doesn't know if he loves a woman until he has sex with her. In my mind, love should develop first. Sex should be an expression of that love.

But, apparently, I'm alone on that one.