One of the reasons I haven’t had much success with eHarmony so far is because I didn’t find most of the guys physically attractive.

Either that, or they didn’t have pictures altogether.

Anyways, today, I notice this crock of poo on the site about how they actually take looks into consideration when matching people up.

I was seriously mortified by that.

I was like, “So…basically, the short, stocky, bristly haired guys I’ve been paired up with are my match looks-wise? These are the sort of guys that ‘look’ good with me?”

Wow.

I don’t know if I should just go slit my wrists and call it a day.

I had to play therapist to an employee who had locked herself in the washroom this afternoon.

I had gone to the women’s washroom, dying to take a pee (I’d had way too many coffees and was stuck in a meeting that ran late, so by the time I bust out of the meeting room, I felt like my bladder was just ready to explode and I was going to soil myself right then and there) when, to my annoyance, I noticed Mousy’s shoes in the only other stall.

This annoyed me — I do not like to pee when someone else is in the room and they’re not peeing.

The washroom closest to my office only has two stalls. You can hear everything.

But since I was thisclose to peeing all over myself, I just rushed in — though, the sound of muffled sniffling coming from the next stall was hard to ignore. (Despite the waterfall that was pouring down the toilet on my end.)

There was a strangled sob when I was washing my hands. You know, I could have taken the coward’s way out and just hightailed it out of there without checking up on Mousy, but I happen to have a soft spot for Mousy…maybe because she seems so wildly awkward and insecure.

I tapped on the stall door and asked her if she was okay — and then I got more than what I was bargaining for.

Turns out she’s been dating someone at the office — an older, married man.

I was outwardly calm and sedate, but inwardly, I was like, “Holyshitfuckcrap!“

Don’t ask me why, but I assumed she was a boyfriend-less virgin like me…but nope. Turns out, I’m still the only virgin left in Toronto. (I know there are others of you floating around out there in the blog universe, so I’m staking the claim now: I’m the only single virgin left in Toronto.)

And of course, I managed to tune her out and turn it into an “all about me” mental session where I thought, “Jesus Christ. If she managed to find someone to fuck her, where does that leave me? What’s wrong with me?”

Ok, ok. Before you come at me with the whole, “Great. She’s hurting and you make it about you” crap, let me finish this post.

So…she thought he’d leave his wife for her, blah blah blah. He was unhappy, etc.

God.

It’s such an old story, it writes itself.

Why do people continue to be such cliches?

When I sighed and rolled my eyes, she got all huffy and said, “See? I knew you’d react this way!”

React what way?

I can’t help it if I have zero patience for the complicated love lives of other people.

I really don’t give a rat’s ass that she’s actually throwing herself at a married man. She should know better and he should know better as well.

I basically told her I didn’t know what she wanted me to say or do — I might be her boss now, but this guy is a colleague and on the corporate ladder, he’s way higher than me.

She’s gotta be crazy if she thinks I’m going to say anything to him.

You know what the funny thing is in all of this?

She’s not even all that good looking.

Her teeth are kind of crooked, she has limp, dry hair and her mouth is always slightly open.

She’s a brilliant worker, but other than that…well, I don’t see what the draw was — not that he’s any prize, either.

I guess lust makes strange bedfellows.

Can I say one thing, though? It makes me feel a little depressed…about everything in general.

Oh, the lies people feel compelled to tell — pat little lies that slip thoughtlessly out of their mouths…the equivalent of small talk, really.

If you bump into someone you know but don’t really want to talk to on the street (but you weren’t clever enough to avoid them in the first place with a quick duck and roll into the nearest shop or simply to abruptly turn the other direction and start pumping your legs like Godzilla was coming your way), you’ll inevitably hit on the safe subjects like the weather.

If you bump into an older Asian aunt you haven’t seen in a million years (and frankly, you’re surprised that this person is still alive) at a wedding, you’ll invariably have to fess up to the fact that, no, you’re still not married; and no, you still don’t have a boyfriend. But pluck up! Elderly Asian Aunty will tell sagely tell you the same cow dung that all elderly Asian aunties have been saying since you were 25 and should have “officially” been dating someone (a Chinese man no older than five years from a “good” family):

Don’t worry, you’ll find someone. Next, it’ll be your turn.

Oh, I’m not worried.

I’m wayyyy past worrying.

What you see before you now is someone who has accepted the fact that I am alone right now — don’t know if that’s going to be the case in the future or if settling down with someone who’s also willing to settle for me will be an option.

Don’t know, don’t care.

It’s surprisingly possible not to care after awhile. You just have to go through several cycles of deep, deep depression — hell, you might not even think you’ll survive that, but somehow, you do. And then, after some false starts where you give in, once in awhile, to hope and then depression and then hope and then back to depression, you start to become increasingly apathetic.

If you’re driven, you become scarily focused with work. Money can be a soothing balm, after all.

Anyways, the wedding wasn’t so bad.

The Childhood Nemesis looked very pretty actually and was practically glowing. Unlike other demure Asian brides, she answered “I do” in such a loud, clear voice that you just knew she was out of her mind with joy to be marrying this guy.

I was a little surprised she introduced me to other people as her “childhood best friend.” I looked at her like she had bumped her head and “jokingly” said more like “childhood nemesis” since she was so annoyingly perfect. (Everybody thought I was joking…but as always, I just tell the truth.)

I didn’t wear a “weird” outfit, though my dress was probably way more casual than what other people were wearing.

I got this floral-print maxi from Urban Outfitters. (I probably buy way too many clothes from there — and I shouldn’t. I’m probably going to be one of those sad women who doesn’t dress her age, forever dressing like a broke college student.)

Memo to self: don’t rub belly after eating too much. This guy offered me his seat ’cause he thought I was pregnant.

Not much else to report.

I’d like to say I met the man of my dreams, but whoever made up that lie about weddings being a great place to meet guys should be shot. It’s not true.

I was, however, introduced to this guy whom one well-meaning aunt thought was “perfect” for me. (Read: he was single.)

He was short, dumpy-looking, had really bad breath, and the bizarre mix of greasy hair and dandruff.

He’s been unable to find a job in his field for awhile and has been stocking grocery shelves for the last little bit.

He spoke with a thick, thick Chinese accent and I learned he was an actual China man — as in, he’s from China.

He “joked” about how he needed a wife to clean up after him because his basement apartment is a complete sty.

Um, yeah. There’s a winner right there.

I think what pained me the most was that more than one person said I should go for him — as if, at this stage in my life, I shouldn’t be so picky.

The “real date” isn’t happening with the guy I decided I was going to give a shot (re: settling).

Let’s just put at this: he lied, it took him awhile to admit he lied about something that was pretty major, and the lie is about something that I would definitely have considered a dealbreaker right from the start.

It just feels like a colossal waste of time.

Thank Christ I’m nothing but a shell with ash inside of me — otherwise, my feelings would have been really hurt.

In other stuff…the amount of skinny fat on my body is just ridonkulous. I don’t even look like I go to the gym…that being said, my idea of working out is increasingly pedalling slowly on a bike while flipping through a magazine.

Why does my mother do this?

My cousin will be moving back to Toronto after having lived in San Francisco for the last five years — and what does my mother do? She offers to let my cousin stay with me.

“Oh! She has room in her condo! She won’t mind! Besides, you young people will have a better time living together.”

I knew my cousin was moving back to Toronto — I’d been hearing about it for weeks actually. I just didn’t realize that my mother had solved the “problem” of where my cousin would stay.

While my cousin and I grew up together and used to be “friends” (in the way that people are “friends” because they’re always forced to hang out together when they’re kids), when we reached our teens, we couldn’t be more different.

My cousin has always been considered “pretty” (even though, if you ask me, I think her square chin and boxy face and thick hair put her at “plain” at the very best). She’s considered serene and zen, but I think she’s slow and plodding.

Me, on the other hand? Apparently, with my super short hair, I look like a teenaged boy. I’m considered harsh, judgmental and highly irritable. (But I guess you all gathered that from my posts, right?)

Anyways, when my mother blithely told me this over dim sum today (everybody’s off work because it’s Canada Day), my sister said it looked like my face just exploded.

I hate that about my face — I get all splotchy and red…as if the giant pores, freckles and old acne scars aren’t bad enough. (By the way, the cousin has soft, dewy pearl-like skin…which my mother and aunts are always praising…and trust me, they have no qualms whatsoever in telling me that my skin looks horrible. What can I say? That’s an old Chinese woman, for ya. No tact, no inner censor. Meanness under the guise of “love.”)

The shit part about all of this is I “can’t” tell my cousin that I don’t want her at my place for a couple of weeks while she looks for a place to stay. It’d make my mom look bad. (I’m laughing hysterically over this right now. It makes my mom look bad. Right.)

Anyways…this weekend is my childhood nemesis’ wedding.

Fuck, I hate weddings.

If you’re Asian, you know what a childhood nemesis is.

She’s the daughter of a family friend — usually, your mom’s childhood nemesis — who’s around the same age as you and who you get eternally compared to because being born around the same year is enough reason to compare two people.

The childhood nemesis is perfect in every single way. Perky, bright, pretty, cute, and successful. She’s a doctor and her fiance is, like, some goddamned lawyer who’s insanely good looking and fit. What’s even more nauseating is how in love they are. Like, at the last gathering we all happened to be at, he actually got up at the karaoke machine and sang (in tune) to her.

It was nauseating. Completely, totally nauseating.

So…you know…that should be fun. (Sarcasm…you get that, right?)

My mother has begged me not to wear something “weird.” (My sister and a couple of friends have, at various times, said I should be nominated for “What Not To Wear.” The former co-worker, Amelie, actually took me clothes shopping a couple of times, and while I have some nicer, pricier items, I find myself falling back to my “weird” clothes.)

I’m actually planning on wearing this burnt orange and brown tie-die maxi dress with these ankle-wrap sandals, but I might opt to go with my version of a little black dress — this tunic dress that’s baggy enough so I won’t feel overly conscious about my body.

I just don’t like form fitting stuff.

Just listening to Madonna — the title of this post doesn’t really have anything to do with the actual post.

There’s this guy at work — a fucking downer who’s never got anything good to say about anything or anyone. (Sounds like he’d be perfect for me, huh? And the thing is, I actually get the sense that he likes me — though, I don’t really have any evidence, per se.)

Anyways, I got sick of him always criticizing other people’s design work, so I assigned him the design aspect for the upcoming project to see what he could come up with.

Being the leader means I can do that kind of shit.

It’s like, he’s always criticizing other people — and the implication is that he could do better…so let’s see if he can actually do better. I’d like to be pleasantly surprised, but at the same time, I want to show that I’m different from my boss, who’s the sort of oaf who gets used to one person handling everything and just assumes that nobody else knows how to do it.

I sort of felt like clapping myself on the back and saying, “Good job, girl! You so open minded!”

Anyways…when I was heading out for a business lunch today, I actually saw this guy I used to go to high school with.

I know I sound like a complete shit for saying this, but he was never the sort of guy any girl in her right mind would have had a crush on…and because I’m crazy, I had a crush on him.

He was hilarious, smart, and creative…but he had so much acne, you could barely make out a face.

I know that sounds like a gross exaggeration, but I assure you, it’s not.

Anyways, I was heading down the escalator while he was heading up and I saw him and I almost wanted to call out to him — but I didn’t.

I mean, I don’t know if he’d even know who the hell I was.

I’ve always assumed I have one of those very forgettable faces and that I’ve always been pretty much invisible.

I swear, sometimes, I think it’s, like, a superpower! Who needs an invisibility cloak? I can blend into the background at will!

Anyways…I know where he works. (Yes. I did some cyber stalking.)

Should I contact him? I have an excuse already…

Okay…why am I even asking you guys for permission to do something that I’ve pretty much already decided to do?

In other news…there’s this other guy on eHarmony.

I contacted him when I was in my “okay, I’m going to totally settle” phase. He actually seems like a good match…except, I’m a shallow little fool, and now, when I look at his picture, I think, “Maybe I can settle for better.”

No. I’m not going to just ignore him and try for “better.” I’m going to hopefully meet up with him and see how things pan out in “real life.”

I know. I know. You don’t need to say it. You’re proud of me for such obvious emotional growth.

I’m proud of me, too.

(You get that the last two sentences were dripping with sarcasm, right?)

So, here’s something I’ve been pretty confused about:

Over on eHarmony, I’m matched up with this guy — he seems interesting (and by interesting, I really mean he’s cute) — and I decide to send him a communication, which leads to nothing.

He doesn’t say “Sayonara” but he doesn’t do anything else, either.

Yet, he’s taken a gander at my profile again. So, what does that mean? Is he waiting for me to finally give up and say, “Okay, fine. You’re not interested, but you’re weirded out by having to tell me that you’re not interested, so you’ve waited for me to turf your profile into the reject pile. Okay. Fine.”

The thing is, I’m tempted to actually e-mail him and ask him, “What’s up with this?”

Last night, the former co-worker-turned-friend, Amelie, brought over the DVD, “He’s Just Not That Into You” and a number of bottles of wine.

We sat on the balcony for a bit, just talking, mulling over the situation when she said: “I’d say e-mail him, but at the same time, once I read ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’, I took every thing that Greg Behrendt said to heart. If the guy wants you, he’ll let you know, right? Everything else is just a lame excuse.”

The danger with having read “He’s Just Not That Into You” and strictly resolving not to be so pathetic as all the examples in the book is that…well, you wind up being this cold, remote Ice Queen.

I have to admit that, creeping up on years and still being a virgin makes me more of an Ice Queen than I’d like to be.

I’ve never been an openly affectionate sort of person — and a part of me thinks that, when I finally make it into a relationship that’s going to last, my weird intimacy issues might be a HUGE problem.

Anyways…the movie was sort of a cop-out.

I mean, the one thing we kept hearing throughout the movie was, “You’re the rule, not the exception.”

All those crazy stories that we hear about girls who finally find their knight in shining armour after all the shit they’ve been put through — well, those girls are the exception. The rule is: every time we’ve been put through crap by a guy, it’s because he’s not interested.

End of story.

Yet, all of “good” girls in the movie wound up being the exception — they found happiness and got exactly what they wanted from their guys.

That sort of bummed me out, but I guess it might have been the wine talking, too.

Amelie actually thinks there might be something to the case for settling — even though another co-worker, Meg, thinks Amelie is talking crazy.

Meg’s also single — but there’s this weird, crazy energy about her (and not in a good way) that makes her really stressful to be around because she makes a big deal out of everything and hypes up the “Independent Woman” thing to sort of try and convince everybody that she’s doing great and doesn’t need anybody.

That’s fine and great — if it were true. It just gets to a point where you have to ask, “Who are you trying to convince? Me or you?”

Okay, I know, I know — there are some of you out there who’ll read this post, roll your eyes and remind me that this is one of those rare exceptions…that for most of us mere mortals and plain-looking folk, love does not arrive with thunderbolts, sunlight suddenly bursting through the clouds and winged angels strumming harps and singing in a choir.

But you know what? Reading about second runner-up, Jonathan Waud from Make Me A Supermodel talking about how he met his wife just makes me feel like gagging and choking on my jealousy vomit.

Q: How did you meet your wife?

JW: I was at the Grove in L.A. with a friend of mine, and saw this beautiful girl walk into the Coffee Bean. She was a complete and utter stranger but I had to follow her. Sounds very stalkerish, I know, but I followed her in– even though I don’t drink coffee, or didn’t then- and somehow started talking to her. It was the first time I drank coffee and the first time I fell truly in love.

I’d never had a total ache in my stomach…. up until I met her I thought I knew what love was. This might sound cheesy and a bit of a cliché, but it really was fireworks. It was completely different from anything I’d experienced before.

I proposed six months later to the day of our first date, filled our apartment with roses and proposed over a candlelit dinner. Funny, the ring cost $300, which was a lot for me then and didn’t even come with a box. I looked everywhere for ring boxes but they all seemed really plain so I found a beautiful mother of pearl jewelry box and placed the ring inside it. She still has that box and takes it with us when we travel.

Have the rest of you ever come across this article by Lori Gottlieb last year in The Atlantic?

Over dinner with my mother last night, I glumly said, “I think I finally see the light now.”

Gottlieb basically says it’s better to settle instead of holding out for your dream man to show up.

She writes:
…no matter what women decide—settle or don’t settle—there’s a price to be paid, because there’s always going to be regret. Unless you meet the man of your dreams (who, by the way, doesn’t exist, precisely because you dreamed him up), there’s going to be a downside to getting married, but a possibly more profound downside to holding out for someone better.

Remember when I told you guys about how I had a miserably married friend who told me she’d never leave her alcoholic, chronically unemployed husband (who, by the way, has punched and raped her a couple of times) because she sees how hard it is for me being the chronically single gal?

Well, when I read this bit in Gottlieb’s piece, I suddenly saw things in a different light:
As the only single woman in my son’s mommy-and-me group, I used to listen each week to a litany of unrelenting complaints about people’s husbands and feel pretty good about my decision to hold out for the right guy, only to realize that these women wouldn’t trade places with me for a second, no matter how dull their marriages might be or how desperately they might long for a different husband. They, like me, would rather feel alone in a marriage than actually be alone, because they, like me, realize that marriage ultimately isn’t about cosmic connection—it’s about how having a teammate, even if he’s not the love of your life, is better than not having one at all.

She admits that it’s hard to just settle — as much as she’d love to, she can’t bring herself to just yet.

My problem with all this?

Where and how do I meet someone I’m willing to settle for and who’ll want to settle for me?

That date I went on a few weeks ago? I was underwhelmed and felt no chemistry or sparks, but what struck me most of all was that he seemed like a really nice guy — the kind of guy who’d make a good friend, husband and father (which, ultimately, is what I’m looking for).

I told myself: if he asks me out again, I’ll go.

But he disappeared on me — which just means that I’m not someone he was willing to settle for.

You know, as much as I’d love to run away from my overly negative, down-in-the-dumps bemoaning over being single, I think that the loneliness and the depression over this sort of crashes down on me sometmes.

It just sucks feeling this lonely.

And now, finally — finally — I understand why so many of my friends choose to stay with the guys they’re with…because, really, who’d want to swap places with me, anyway?

Yes, I have a great career that challenges me, but as all of my friends pair off, I find myself trying to keep myself occupied on my own…and being on your own is really, really lonely.

I’m one hot mess.

I have a massive zit festering on my forehead, ready to bust out like Freddy Mercury singing, “I’ve got to break free!”

Plus, as a result of my OCD, I became fixated on this ingrown hair on my leg and I actually took a needle and broke through the skin, trying to claw the sucker out while having my tweezers on standby, ready to swoop in and pull if I ever managed to get a hold of that hair. (No dice.)

So…now, I’ve got a raw patch of red skin on my leg, too.

At work, in spite of my physical messiness, I’ve now been officially welcomed into the managers’ club — it sort of reminds me of high school, actually…except, often, at work, people who were probably never popular in high school now think they’re in the “cool” group — and by “cool”, I really mean higher paid.

It’s very cliquey — or at least that’s how it is where I work. The top guy in my division barely even makes eye contact with the minions, who all hate him with a loathing you’d normally reserve for someone like Adolf Hitler. (Seriously, you’d think this guy torched their homes and killed their families or something — the minions never call him by his name. They call him Jizz Face and Shit Eater.)

Anyways, some of the minions weren’t happy about my promotion — which I anticipated, but I was really direct.

My take is — yeah, I know if you take off 15 minutes early or take longer than an hour for your lunch break or if you spend way too much time on the Internet during work hours…but you know what? I don’t really give a shit as long as you do your work and it’s done properly.

I mean, it’s not like their pay is coming out of my own pocket, you know? So, who gives a fuck?

I’ve always hated bosses who are micro managers and who get all crazy, power tripping.

The one thing I really don’t like about having people report to me?

It’s how you’re suddenly on the outside. Everybody else is out there in cubicle land and they’re just shooting the shit, talking about stuff and goofing off…but you? You can’t do that anymore, ’cause when you come over, they have to pretend they’re working.

It’s just a little weird.