Play The Field and Win the Man of Your Dreams*

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*If your dreams involve Freddy Krueger

The advice for women to play the field is the basis of many a self-help book and equivalent of a winning lotto ticket for many a relationship expert. “My God, it’s not my parents’ divorce, a fear of phallic objects and that pesky meth habit that’s kept me single – it’s just that I need to date a shit-ton of men–and then I will meet that one special guy!!!”

Obviously, this seems to be rather a large obstacle to overcome, for myself and some women (not ALL, mind you – and thank God for that!), and so we keep buying the self-help books and listening to those relationship experts who, really, have a jacked-up love life themselves (I’m looking at you, Patti Duck-Lips Stanger). I think it’s because playing the field can feel something like waiting in a bread line in Siberia, or, coming in a close second, waiting for the fucking D Line train at Park Street. I mean, there’s nothing. Tumbleweeds. Crickets. Wolves howling. And whatever does come along invokes some kind of bloodbath among the womenfolk not seen since Shark Week. And Christ, that’s just for one date with one dude! One waft of “Angel” by Vickie’s Secret and that’s it, I’m out – Get me out, GET ME OUT, just give me back the remote and the couch and the Cool Ranch Doritos and we’ll just chalk this one up to, uh, the stars not aligning or whatevs.

Now, of course that’s not reality, and indeed it is a matter of perspective. Perhaps we have become so addicted to instant gratification (“I said DIRECTIONS TO AUSTIN, TEXAS, AVOIDING HIGHWAYS, SIRI, YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT! IS IT REALLY THAT DIFFICULT TO FIGURE OUT?!?!”) that when that person who can satisfy every single one of our needs doesn’t magically appear with the click of a mouse (or a slurp of the beer) we throw a fit and then throw in the towel. Hush now, there’s plenty of menz. But it’s going to take some time and energy, and some effort. And that’s what really sucks.

Yes, playing the field is a royal pain in the ass. It’s a lot of start-stop, it’s a lot of making plans with people who may or may not be sex offenders, it’s a lot of small talk, it’s a lot of bullshit. There’s no guarantee, no ROI. But it may be a good way to practice not having expectations so fucking sky high and so far up my fucking ass that only Superman on speed could satisfy me, and that would only be for 1/2 hour, twenty minutes, tops.

And here’s the kicker: if you try to play the field in order to get a boyfriend, you will fail. Yep. No one likes a relationship junkie. And they can smell desperation a mile away. No, this is all you can do: you can only ENJOY THE EXPERIENCE AND TAKE IT FOR WHAT IT IS. That’s it. That’s some deep Yoda shit right there, huh.

Of course, if you do happen to trip and fall over The One while playing the field, may rainbows and Lil’ Ponies and Carebears come shooting out of your ass because YOU HAVE WON!!!!!*

*If not, come on over. There’s a seat cushion with pet hair and Dorito crumbs with your name on it.

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