Recently, it seems, I’ve been having the same conversation with my friends. It’s all very Groundhog Day. It begins with my lamenting the fact that I have been more or less single for the entirety of three years. In that time I have dated. Arguably, I’ve dated a lot. I just haven’t dated anyone special. I tell my friends that I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me. My emotional problems are limited, my looks better than average, my brain sharp as a tack and my vagina waxed.
Everytime I begin this conversation, it inevitably ends the same way — my friends, like a Greek Chorus, chime in, as if on cue, “It’s the city you live in. Los Angeles. You just can’t find a good man in Los Angeles.”
If you say it quickly and repeatedly it almost sounds like a Hare Krishna chant. Keep reading »