A Night In The Life Of The Single Gal

Has it really come to this? Singles' Events. Yes, you too can pay a small fee to go to a location (that ordinarily would be free) to hang out with other desperate singles and sip mediocre samples of mediocre wine.

The backstory: A few weeks ago, I befriended a gal at the dog park. L is a single gal, and I was thrilled to find another fun, smart, pretty, adventurous, independent single gal living just a few blocks away from me (you mean I'm really not the only one left????) After a few casual chit chats, we decided, a bit reluctantly, to go to a singles' wine tasting event at a bar in North Beach. We were joined by our fellow sister to the singlehood, C, and this guy...well...let me tell you about him.

The guy who's offered to give us a ride is Angry Man personified. In an instant, I know why this guy is single. The guy has a new car, and he simply can't stop bragging about it (Dude, it's a VOLKSWAGEN for gawd's sake. Get over it. Nobody's impressed.) and he furthermore can't stop overaccelerating and weaving in and out of traffic. But the worst, the absolute worst, is that when we're leaving L's apartment, this little old lady (I mean, little old lady, complete with cane and osteoporosis) is walking behind us, and he's backing up and almost hits her. Well, she gives a big whack! to the back of his car (deservedly so; I damn hate it when cars almost hit me) and Angry Man gets out of his car and starts (are you waiting for this impressive moment in the history of singledom?) yelling at this little old lady!

Let's say it again: He starts yelling at this little old lady! Like to the point that we all think he's going to start beating her up (well, I'm pretty sure that she could have taken him down; the guy's driving a VOLKSWAGEN, afterall).

We ladies strapped in the car are at first stunned; then we exchange disbelieving, horrified looks; and finally we all frantically attempt to get out of his car (which, because it's a "NEW CAR!" is surprisingly impossible to get out of). C finally coaxes -- or should I say, Begs? -- him back into the car, and we're off for our ride of terror. (An aside for those of you in the San Francisco know: why would anyone feel the need to drive to North Beach when you can just take the bus? or a cab?)

So we finally get to the event, ditch Angry Man, and...well...I'm not sure how to say this without sounding like a total shallow politically-incorrect bitch. Okay, in this visually surreal moment in the life of being me, I am instantly aware that almost all of the men at the event are short. Not just below average short (you know, a good 5'8" or so) but really super short. I'm talking 5'0" and under. And oddly, most of the women are tall. We're talking 5'7" and up. I'm 5'10" and I must say that it's the oddest image to be in a sea of single Amazonian women and a tidepool of single male Munchkins newly escaped from Munchkinland. (Note to self: Reason #4859 to get a camera phone; we welcome you to Munchkinland. You really had to see it for yourself.)

But that's not the real problem. I can date a short guy, no problem. But. First off, there are about 5 women for every 1 man. And the guys are just losers. The men appear to have no social skills (in spite of the odds clearly being stacked in their favor -- you know, at 5:1 they should all be taking home a little hottie, or maybe two) as they're huddled in clusters with their friends, clutching their wine samples, and barely able to come up with complete sentences to exchange with the ladies.

Highlights of the evening:

• C says to me, Those two guys behind you are totally checking out your ass. I subversively tilt my head sideways, spot the shorties, and say, Well, of course they're checking out my ass; it's right at their eye level. (You think I'm exaggerating about this; I promise you, I'm not. Eye level ass.)
• Flirting with the only truly interesting men there, the Australian wine guys who are sponsoring the event. They're both married, but at least they can formulate coherent thoughts. They inform me that when I go to Australia in March I'll be getting laid every day if I want. I'm not sure I believe this, but we can ask Julia and Jules for conformation.
• Taking my antibiotics with cheap champagne (I don't recommend this to anyone, but when there's no water around, sometimes it's the only thing a gal can do).
• Chocolate mini brownies. You take what you can get at a singles event.

After awhile, we're bored. We're running out of our drink tickets and running out of patience. But then I spot a herd of seemingly normal men. I make my move. It's a trio of foreigners, who at first claim to be from the Ukraine, and then claim to be from Israel. Or so it sounded above the din of bad dance music blaring overhead. Whatever. They have accents and can stare me in the eye. After twenty minutes of blab blab blab, Man One and Man Two slip away, leaving me with Man Three. Of course, he's the one of the three who can barely hold the conversation, and so after a few minutes, I ditch Man Three go in search of Man One, who appears to be the most interesting of the trio.

Mistake? You be the judge.

Within ten minutes, the Man One has revealed the following key points:

1. It is two days short of being 4 months since he has had sex;
2. He is incredibly horny;
3. Man Three likes me too. Man One thinks this could be a problem;
4. He typically only has sex with a woman 2-6 times;
5. He's lucky if his relationships last 6 weeks.

Am I the only one out there who thinks this is a bit odd? And again, a clear indicator of why this guy is single? But since he's, sadly, the best guy at the event, and I'm feeling a bit frustrated and horny myself, we exchange e-mails. I figure that he can always be my "Get Out of Celibacy Free" card should the need arise.

Me and my gals decide to ditch the party to find some tasty Italian cuisine (replace romance void with carbs) and as we're leaving, I spot my Israeli-Ukranian suitor and his friends out front. I toss him a casual wave, and he completely and entirely ignores me. Er, okay. You freak. Next.

Replace romantic void with carbs. Check.

Oddly, within 24 hours, he's sent me an e-mail. Why is it always the creepy ones who are capable of follow through and never the not-so-creepy ones? Maybe I really should be off to see a wizard.

Think I'll store that Get Out of Celibacy Free card in my back pocket for another evening!