SIGN HERE. Take a name tag. You're number 41. Now print your number on this envelope. Decorate the envelope with the supplies in the other room. Hang your envelope on the wall over there. Then people can leave you messages. Yay! Have fun!
This is lesbian socialization at its finest: timid, contrived, and crafty.
"You deal with this," I say to my friend. "I'm going to hang my coat." Or myself.
Not one for organized singles events, I arrived at this party after a fight with an ex-suitor, hell-bent on whoring it up with a bunch of hot ladies. Decorating vegan cupcakes wasn't exactly what I had in mind. The lights are bright. The music is nonexistent. And the ladies are men (or used to be) - at least the ones who care to talk to me. We're drawn together by our mutual fondness for mascara and vintage dresses. But we have to part ways when I start getting cheekbone envy.
These kinds of events make my skin crawl. Desperate eyes dart around the room looking to lock with anyone else's. Uncomfortable people jockey for a comfort zone. Body movements are awkward as attendees negotiate a minefield of human wanting. And the sexual energy is as charged as a dead battery.
As if the attempts at forced socialization weren't bad enough, we're later corralled into games of raunchy charades and Spin the Bottle. Can someone please hold me and tell me it'll be okay?
"Oh my God. That's terrible," said a sympathetic friend, after detailing the exquisite marriage proposal her boyfriend had orchestrated on the same night that I was engaging in adolescent games.
"If I don't have a date for your wedding, shoot me in the head," I said.
I'm not having a pity party for one. I'm just terrified at the options I see for "singles" nowadays. Everywhere I go, someone wants to put a lei around my neck or force me to wear a name tag in order to meet other lepers. Eight-minute dating is about seven-and-a-half minutes too long for me. And those gimmicks in which they employ sensory deprivation to see if personality trumps looks fail as soon as you catch a glimpse of the person with whom you're matched.
"Single" is a label I've always worn proudly. But I used it more as an explanation that I wasn't committed to the person or persons I was dating; I wasn't really embracing the actual state of mind or being. I just wanted people to know that I was available. Now "single" feels more like a verb, something I must work to change. Others use the word like it's an ailment: so sad that you've contracted it, and pulling for you to be in the clear.
Taped to my computer monitor are two fortunes. One reads: "The love of your life will appear in front of you unexpectedly!" The other says: "You will never need to worry about a steady income." Together, they are my daily affirmations that absolutely nothing in life happens without effort - and that the Chinese lie.
We must get up every day with the hope that, if we wander the streets long enough, we'll bump into our soul mate. We must work ourselves up for another belabored dinner conversation with a boring stranger. We must keep motherfuckin' hope alive! Because this one, any one, could be "The One."
So here I am, nestled between a lesbian I've nicknamed Robocop (because of the pins holding her arm together after a motorcycle accident) and an Italian girl whom I think is making fun of me in her native tongue. I am not amused by the dancing antics of this Rosie O'Donnell look-alike. And I'm starting to think that I am, in fact, a total bitch.
But I'm trying! I'm here wearing a pained smile and my little name tag. And I'm trying not to think about the girl who recently told me she's emotionally unavailable. I'm trying to forget about all the relationships that I casually discarded for the promise of something better. I'm trying to imagine having anything in common with these people, other than all of us being gay.
Mostly, I'm trying to make it across the room inconspicuously to grab my envelope. Who knows? Maybe there was some cute girl spying on me from across the room who didn't have the nerve to approach. Perhaps someone will crack me up by sticking her credit-card statement in there. Anything is possible. Remain positive. Walk with purpose. Take a quick peek without anyone noticing.
It's empty. @
Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who doesn't mix charades and dating. You can reach contestant #41 at jeannieg@comcast.net.
[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]
