I just learned a very valuable lesson: when you have a craving for pizza and beer, don't attempt to satisfy said craving with a Lean Cuisine Deluxe Pizza and an MGD 64. No amount of calorie cutting is worth such a flavor tease. As I wash down the rubbery imitation cheese atop a dry cracker with hops hinted water, my entire being is overwhelmed with regret. 64 calories, yes. But it's 64 calories of watered down crap.
The upside? I can drink all 6 of them and not feel guilty. That's the point right? Quantity over quality?
I am reluctant to say that I have come to that awkward age that all single girls in their mid-twenties fear most. The ring-check stage. As I age toward the impending doom of 25 and a half years old (at least it's not 26, thank God *cough*), I have become accustomed to this disappointing practice. See a handsome, potentially date-worthy young gentleman? Before you smile and bend over to show your 13 ounces of cleavage, you have to check the hand. And the older we get, the most sparkle we see on those left hands, am I right ladies? It catches our eye and as our heart drops into our bowels and our stomach tries to fall out of our butts, all that goes through our minds is "Another one bites the dust."
And even if you're lucky enough to meet a seemingly eligible male not sporting the ring of death, that's only the first hurdle of many. While he might not be betrothed, 9 times out of 10, he's on some other girl's leash. I strongly believe that all males in a committed relationship should wear some sort of beacon that will indicate he's unavailable. This would make the life of the single girl tremendously easier. Even better, those that are single should be searchable by a simple smartphone app. Walk in to a room, search the app, and all of a sudden you have half the pre-conversation research done.
I'm all about efficiency here. SingleFinder, coming to an App store, near you.
I'm beginning to see the advantage to the arranged marriage. It's just like having reservations for dinner. You're at least guaranteed a table. And you're sure to have some dinner. Or at the very least, and appetizer or two.
At the rate I'm going, I might as well be anorexic. At least then I wouldn't have to worry about calorie cutting my junk food craving for the ultimate protection of my girlish figure that society has told me I need to snare what very well may be Earth's last single guy.
Facebook continues to baffle me with the live updates of who just declared themselves "in a relationship," "it's complicated," or the ultimate "engaged." I swear, I don't know how some of these people find each other. The coldhearted, the mean, the obnoxious, and the clinically insane are shackin' up, while I -- perfectly sane, only obnoxious some times, warm, and friendly -- spend my Saturday nights putting together Ikea furniture to the sound of America's Country Countdown. There is something wrong with this picture.
Somebody, please tell me "when you least expect it" is going to occur. I need to know if I should freeze some eggs or not.
