I am often advised to be less picky about my explicit criteria for who I will date. (I am advised to be more picky about who I actually date, but that’s a different story.) The theory is that if you’re too choosy, you may never find someone. I don’t much care for that theory. It has a gaping hole in it, which is that if I compromise away some of my baselines (like vegetarian, solvent, keeps promises), I’ll end up worse off than I am if I hang out with just me. So I remain steadfast in my criteria, and only hope that I have gotten smart enough to remember them when I see a pretty face.
Until I get sick, and then it all goes to hell.
So here it is, universe: I’ll take a messy packrat carnivore who is always late and smokes like California on fire if he or she will just get over here and walk The Dog and put clean sheets on my bed and be the one who watches to make sure the frozen pizza doesn’t burn.
Thank you. We now return to your regularly scheduled program of not whining quite as much as we did in this post.
I say stick to the high standards; that’s my mantra and I’m sticking to it. Sure, you run a 50/50 chance of being exorbitantly happy with the perfect person or bitterly resentful of a wasted life, but from where I come, them’s good bettin’ odds! Out of 8 billion fellow homo sapians, there has to be one good match out there. Just cross your fingers that yours isn’t part of a !kung bushmen tribe, picking fruit and hunting antelope with an atl-atl.