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Those of you that have been single for any extended period of time know that while you may be perfectly content in your singleness, you will have days or even weeks when you become convinced that you are going to DIE ALONE.

I had one of those days a little over a month ago.

Sitting at my computer, pissing away time on facebook writing a paper, I suddenly realized that it had been five years since my last official date. I’d had an unofficial date two summers ago, but that was unofficial, therefore, it didn’t count. On top of this I also realized that while I’ve dated on a fairly regular basis, I’ve never had a boyfriend. Compound this on top of the fact that I just had a birthday.

I’m now twenty-three years old.

The same age my sister was when she got married.

Let’s do a quick comparison, shall we?

Kira at 23                                                    Gyasi at 23

– college graduate                                       – college graduate

– steady job                                                – steady job

– husband                                                  – GOING TO DIE ALONE

Now, you should never, ever, ever, ever compare yourself to other people when it comes to your love life. You shouldn’t do this for two reasons: 1) The grass is never as green as you think it is and 2) Everyone’s life journey is different. (My goodness that was so New Age.) This statement is proven by the fact that I took that last little difference between my sister and I and ran with it. I interpreted that difference to mean that I was a failure at life. Seriously, how hard can it be to find a husband? Obviously I must be doing something wrong! I must not be trying hard enough to meet the right man! Either that or I’m hideous (yeah right, I’m too vain for that) and my personality is offensive (once again, way too pompous to think that). As you all know I have an extremely inflated self-image, so I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t trying hard enough to meet single, available men. What did I choose to do to remedy this situation? I joined a dating website.

Since I don’t want to sued, we’ll call that site certainlyspinster.com.

One credit card charge later, I was writing a profile and filling out match criteria.

You must realize that even though I would have probably dated anything with a pulse and a willing disposition at that moment in time, I still found it in my heart of hearts to check boxes indicating the type of match I would like.

“Well, height and weight don’t really matter…hair color and eye color? Do I have a preference? I’ve never really thought about it.”

(forty minutes later)

“I should marry a redhead. Our babies would be gorgeous.”

(one hour later)

“Finish your profile, you self-involved moron.”

(ten minutes later)

“Ok, education. College? Yeah, college would be nice. Religious beliefs. Yes, yes, he must love the Jesus. Drinking and smoking. Drinking, ok as long as he’s not a lush and smoking  is a no because I still can’t pull off a fake corn cob pipe. Athletic, not a big deal. Hobbies? Um…not a coon hunter? I don’t know! Favorite movie genre. Comedy? Favorite music. Eh, I’m not picky. Relationship status? Well, single, duh. What do they mean by that?”

(five minutes later)

“Oh…well, I guess I’d prefer someone who’d never been married before and doesn’t have kids.”

(ten minutes later)

“Am I being too picky?”

(twenty minutes later)

“I’m not even sure if I’m going to like my own kids, so I should probably stay away from other people’s.”

(thirty minutes later)

“Yeah, I don’t want to be a twenty-three year old stepmother.”

(five minutes later)

“Eh…that’s an episode of Jerry Springer waiting to happen. Ok, let me submit this sucker.”

Around 10:30 that night, I submitted my profile to certainlyspinster.com for approval and waited for the matches to come piling in. The next day, I had three waiting for me in my inbox. Apparently, someone with the profile name Da Illest Negro wanted to chat with me.

Normally, I would have thrown him into an abyss of everlasting suffering for that profile name alone, but I was in a bad head space and swore I was going to DIE ALONE, so I decided to view his profile before rejecting him. Da Illest Negro (you guys know that he wasn’t using “negro”, right?) never graduated from high school, worked at publix, and lived in Marietta, Georgia. Ever since I got lost in Atlanta during a road trip, I’ve never been fond of Georgia; therefore, I decided to cut Da Illest Negro loose. I sent him a very cordial reply of “I’m flattered, but I don’t think I’m the right match for you. Best of luck.”

At this point in the online dating game, I figured this was just a one off. One bad match that had gotten through the filter. I figured that in a few days the love of my life was going to a appear in my inbox. We would chat across cyberspace, fall in love over naan and curry (because my perfect man loves Indian food), get married in a traditionally modern ceremony, and make beautiful mixed race children.

Possibly with red hair.

I would soon learn.

Lesson 1: Bad matches are like gray hairs; pluck one and three come to its funeral.

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