Rejection & Pity

     Absolutely convinced, she walked out and anxiously directed her Lyft driver to the ungoogleable side-street. Three turns short of an Austin Powers sequel he arrived in time to find her awkwardly engaged by the last Tinder date she'd ever have. His words sounded offensive and reminiscent of construction cat calls or the odd shouting of a drunken racist as he watches the Olympics. She left to rid her life of the garbage represented by image driven connections to men online. She deleted the app again for the last time and opened the ice cream-less freezer, thankful for the maliciously sober decisions bent on depriving her maligned self from picking at fresh scabs.

     When she woke the memory of things gained was lost amidst heaps of confusing abrasion. Everything she could remember about the would-be suitor repulsed her and sparked an internal conversation bent on getting to the bottom of modern attraction. She couldn't stand the idea that a confident woman in the new millennium would feel the need to be bound to a man. Historically marriage placed women and their dowry on par with peace, a concept as speech-worthy as it is inapplicable in the Middle East.

    To be pitied however is quite painful. A friend who rejoices in the fact that they can never be you, is a crack in the wall of the 8 ft pool you call your life. A few summer parties in tubes and bikinis leaks to a solitary forty year old skateboarder shredding apart property values. Pity wins when compared to rejection though. To be pitied assumes you had potential to do better. When a woman rejects you the whole world joins in. Rejection either demands a pitiable person emerge or someone never worthy of acceptance in the first place. 

The Eyes of the Beholder

     His pockmarks deflected her gaze like uncredited fists from Bruce Lee's comfort zone. Confident in his sharp whit and chivalrous nature Matt could command a room and have all the ladies laughing. He couldn't keep them from admiring any other man though, unblemished and dull as they may be. Rock idols with filthy blonde strands leaking down to heroin scarred landscapes were once identified as sex symbols and the gritty black and white jacket photos inspired him. Something so great like the tide of tones or just the draw of fame might overcome even the most heinous of physical deterrents.

     She blamed her glasses for repeated nights of Dancing with the Stars and prayed the irritation wouldn't keep those hazels from contacting attention at her cousin's wedding this Sunday. Emily accused her body type for the ill-fitting dress she settled on after two hours of work in the mirror and drove like a demon on God's good side cross county lines for a last minute entrance as the procession began. Envy crept in on cue but she kept her tight smile and hugged new family and victorious rival alike with no hope but to see greener grass when her day comes.

     They won't meet. Even if they did, they are not right for each other. She defines her own attraction but not without the help of every idol photographed and presented to her in line at Vons or on billboards lining her daily crawl to work. He's not interested because she doesn't meet his Buzzfeed manufactured standard. Sadly she is far out of his league even if he was interested, but he'll never stoop so low to discover how far beyond appearances human connection can dwell. 

Plus Ones Suck

     Their celebration of love cemented by vows and tax forms played out a classy chorus under typically perfect Ventura county weather. I can't help but be proud of them, she a sweet girl impossibly matched and he made us forget what they were ever like apart. If marriage released its flagship model complete with Bluetooth, reverse camera and seat warmers, this was it. But amidst the  fog of new nuptials, candid toasts and keg explosions I sat with my sister wondering what was next. As much as I want to take joy in the success of my friends and family, it's always painful leaving the plus one box empty on satin stationary.

     In fact my answers are always the same, yes I'll be attending alone and pumped for the chicken. While buddies slap my back suggesting single bridesmaids can cure the blank space blues it's difficult to ignore the constant reminders of your relationship status. Relegated to the singles table we took the opportunity to catch up and bonded over our inability to share a funny honeymoon story prompted by table decorations. An hour later I was happy to see my sister dancing with the best man but I knew no amount of wine could move my feet with family watching.

     Of course the pressure to marry is great when you walk past gowns and babies with a girlfriend on your arm. The tension can be like showing up to Indianapolis in a go cart with Pennzoil plastered to the side and the moment you yank the starter cord her dad's going to scan the crowd for a proper suitor. But my sympathy is with the lonely who have no opportunity to fail. A wedding may be their chance to wine and dance the groom's sister into a stupor but at the end of the night she still lives in Phoenix and you're not sure grandma's introduction qualifies as "Our Story" material.