As I’ve come to learn, dating in New York City isn’t…well…dating. At least what you think of traditionally in terms of the word. There isn’t a whole lot of that good, wholesome stuff you see on TV or in the movies. Oftentimes, he doesn’t call and ask to take you out to dinner, nor does he pick you up, or follow-up after the requisite three days (even if he really likes you). And, as I’ve found out the hard way, more often than not, girls pay their own way.

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.