May 15, 2010 at 7:43 pm Leave a comment

I told my therapist the other day that I wish that I could have a therapist that would just once tell me the truth about the fact that I am doomed to live alone forever. I think he thought I was trying to be funny. I wasn’t.

I’d like, just once, for someone to acknowledge that logically, based on my past experiences, which have nearly all been profoundly disappointing, and my unique personality and vision of life, that I won’t find anyone. In short, I’d just like a therapist to tell me how to be okay with my lot in life and quit desiring to be anything other than profoundly lonely. Just tell me the truth and then help me deal with it. No can do.

My therapist lives in this fairy tale Happyland where after I’ve been sober and in therapy for a good year or two and gained confidence, something miraculous will happen. In Happyland, once I’ve stopped living like a hermit consistently and started making choices in my life that reflect that I love myself, I will magically produce a mate out of my back pocket. It will be just that easy. Pocket Husband. He’s perfect except for one tiny flaw.

My chances of finding a soul mate are rather like the chances of finding a cure for cancer in an empty room with only a Bic lighter, a lemon, and some dental floss. Only if Macgyver decided to become a matchmaker will I ever find someone.

My therapist acknowledges that my past experiences with men are enough to make any sane woman decide not to try ever again. This is because the very definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results. Considering that my most recent “heartbreak” comes from the unrelationship where nobody actually tried, I might just be totally screwed. Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. But leaving aside my relationship history and my unrelationship history, then we have just the possibility that I will find some man with which I am compatible. I’m not an expert on statistics, but let’s give it a whirl.

I’m not a homewrecker or a lesbian. The not a lesbian thing narrows my choices only to men, who actually are about 49% of the population. Take out the gay men, ‘cause I’ve been there and done that and have the t-shirt, and that makes it about 39% of the population. The unmarried people in the United States over age 18 are about 42% of the population. So, 42% of that 39% are off limits.

This is going to require math. My head is hurting already. How do you do that? Would it be .42 *.39? And do you have to take all these statistics off the internet from one source that gets its data from the same census?

Ah, screw it. I wish I still had the phone number of that Lithuanian teaching assistant from that business calculus class I took. Ooooooooh! He was cute. And he was a whiz with statistics. I think he’s married now, though. Sorry. Off-topic.

I am politically liberal. So, that’s 35% of the American population. Cut out 65% of eligible people right there. That’s because I am not of the same ilk as James Carville and Mary Matalin. I want to live in a harmonious household where my mate and I agree on our opinions of major issues and have similar visions and goals. Excuse me for being so picky that I want to be compatible with my mate.

I have an IQ of over 130, which doesn’t make me a freaky genius but does put me in the top 2.5% of the world’s population. I want a guy who’s going to be smart enough to get me and smart enough to not eventually resent me for being smarter than him. That eliminates about 97% of the world’s population right there.

Speaking of things that men get resentful about, I would have to eliminate any men who aren’t more successful than me, any man who doesn’t make more money than me. That’s a recipe for disaster. This will definitely leave me with plenty of choices. Fifty-seven percent of the population of the United States makes more money than me.

Considering that in this country, women still make approximately $.70 for every dollar a man makes, plenty of these people who are richer than me are bound to be men. Sure, this is an injustice and a travesty, and women could fight it if they ever cared to take up the banner for the long defunct Equal Rights Amendment. But who needs equal pay when you can have a happy love life? And which would you rather have?

Now we are left with religion. I refuse to consider atheists, agnostics, or secular humanists. This is a shame because I think Christopher Hitchens has a fine mind, and I admire his writing even though I don’t always agree with his views. Frankly, it’s that thing again about having similar visions and goals. I’m so shallow and picky, aren’t I? The one thing in the world that is most important to me is God, and I want my mate to be able to understand that and to understand me.

In that vein, I am also eliminating adherents to other world religions besides Christianity. I could quote that Bible verse about being unequally yoked. Or is it the one about the free milk and the cow? I don’t want to sound preachy, though.

I also reserve the right to refuse service to red neck, right wing, closed-minded Fundamentalist types. So, this leaves only the mainline Christian protestant denominations and Catholics. And some of those members of the mainline Christian protestant churches would still be friends of Dubya.

Sadly, it pains me to report that Dubya is a United Methodist. The total of the United States population that is either Catholic or mainline Protestant is 38%. I figure you can probably lob that in half to find people who don’t think that every word of the Bible is meant to be taken literally. That’s 19% of the U.S. population.

So, after having taken all of these statistics from all of these polls and censuses and, etc. off the internet and plugged them into my Excel spreadsheet, complete with functions and algorithms and a handy-dandy graph, I figure that if I live to be ninety that I have a .000000000001% shot of one day running across my soul mate in the nursing home. Of course, being Pocket Husband, he will be trapped in my closet.


Entry filed under: Love, Marriage, Relationships.

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