Dancing with the dolts

Monday, July 23, 2018

"I'm hormonal and sick and fat and want to quit my job right this minute."
"Let's get a drink?"

I get done sending these texts to BoDa, Gurugram's answer to grumpy Yoda, and keep my phone down as soon as I hear my name being called from two directions. Can I Whatsapp images instead of emailing them? Can I also upload the same graphic meant for a cell phone screen to upload in 1x1 square frame on five different Instagram handles our workplace is running?

Why the fuck not.

BoDa calls me back in under four minutes, a delay from his standard under-two-minute rule of receiving texts that he deems to not address in the written word.

"...listen, the other day I had this girl over...someone I'd been texting and you know it was fine, okay. We're chilling at my place, she's got a drink, she gets up and puts some music on and comes and sits close to me. Next, she whispers in my ear, Do you want to dain-se? and I ask her "What?"

"Wait a minute, what did she say?"

"She said dain-se. Do you want to dain-se? I even asked her again but she said the same thing. I gave her the benefit of doubt. Do you think I've high standards? Is that the reason I can't date?"

At this point, I'd heard my name being called thrice from three different directions. BoDa, that bastard, has more dates in a month despite the arm candies he lands up with from time to time. Naturally, I ignore all the rest of them at work calling my name out and get up from my chair. This was getting interesting. BoDa's radar at an all-time low meant my priorities to this conversation had to be re-arranged.


Motherfucking reception.

What is it about single people and their invisible yardstick of obnoxious, tight-assed standard that always remains far too high for other hot singles in the area to match? Is it the obvious stick up their arse that prevents them from taking a shine on others? Is it because they're floating in the ether to look down upon mortals who make themselves vulnerable around others? Is it because they would much rather prefer dying of loneliness than being with someone who can't pronounce dance?

The case has been going on for far too long.

Strangely enough, I've been looked at purposefully by people as someone who has things to say. By default, anyone who is single has things to say. I can pitch multiple pieces as to why I'm a great fit at this.

Been single for a little over 26 years and counting, I can count the number of heartbreaks I've had caused by men on a single hand. However, the number of heartbreaks caused by me in my own head (including mispronunciation of words, bad grammar, bad punctuation, no punctuation, bad breath, disproportionate calves to body ratio, belief in astrological rings, lisp, bad hair, no hair, grey hair, girlfriend, wife, bad human are some of the examples) is a little too high and the list, far too long.

A couple of nights ago, I was bantering with an acquaintance who I had the pleasure of matching with on a dating app about two years ago. We found each other at several Delhi do's and ultimately stopped feigning ignorance after I vomitted one too many times at his place during a house party he was kind enough to host to ring in a friend's big thirtieth birthday. The guy is every bit loony and delightful, a charmer and a total keeper. Last week, he shared a screenshot with me. This girl made a plan with him, to call it off fifteen minutes later and in the next fifteen block him out. This girl apparently only dates academics or oncologists.

newsflash- he's neither.

That was her selling point to him. "Hey, I can maybe date you despite you not being at my level."

I don't know the man very well and I definitely don't know the woman but man, you can't throw your weight around like this if you're in the wrong side of 20s in Delhi.

What used to be my standard to go out is now just a filter of the past. Is he an asshole? Okay fine, don't mind. Is he a sexual predator? Okay, I do mind.

What my committed friends don't get is that the market is dry. There's nobody left. The good ones are taken. The idiots are taken. Bad breath holders are also taken.

The ones who are left are all those of us who overthink. Who waste time on details. Those who unmatch the minute someone says "Hey!" because no matter how single and lonely I get, no great dating story begins with a bloody "hey".

The only "hey" that works in this world is for fucking horses. "Hey" by default is not for human consumption.

 If you skip past the bloody hey, it's not as if the battle is won. The standards continue to torment.

If he/she's needier than you- which is to say- shows the need to be with you, your own snooty self will dump his/her ass because how dare someone show vulnerability to you when you're praying to all agnostic gods together to hide your vulnerable, lonely ass infront of everyone you know at the restaurant, including the server who's now seen you come in with eight different men in the last quarter of this year.

That monologue has been me for the last one month. Minus a few details here and there, but it's true.

I can't get myself to date people who like me. I can't get myself to date people who don't like. I can't get myself to date people who can't type properly. I can't get myself to date those who can type (because the ones who can write put together an exquisite heartbreak- like no other).

What I'm trying to say in this convoluted, verbose, giant piece of turd like writing is that there's no hope for those of us who read this and can identify with the shit I have said.

If you don't identify with this, consider yourself saved and visit a church/temple to celebrate the same.

As for the rest of us, I'm going to hope for men to rain in every hallelujah I say.

It's not raining cats and dogs. It's definitely raining inappropriate men. Hallelujah.

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