My Warthog Flag

This hill is where I plant my flag. I love and admire good men, from historical figures to near relatives. I want to marry one (a man, not a relative). But I have gotten to know fewer than ten men in the last ten years. My roommates and other non-expert acquaintances always guilt me into giving these guys a chance. "You don't even know him!" they say, but they don't understand. Because I'm not like them. I'm not like any of them. I'm a warthog.

The truth is that I've got the "I'll know" syndrome from Guys and Dolls.


I DON'T know, precisely. I haven't made that mistake, although "not a gambler" is a really good place to start. But let's start with "he'll be sincerely interested in me:" the only deal-breaker currently active.

I am truly, pathetically desperate. I can tell by the relish with which I cultivated my last dating failure. I keep hoping to be asked on dates by men I wouldn't hire to file my taxes, let alone want to hold my hand. HOPING to be asked. Because they're the only guys I know. I'll say yes to anybody. Anybody. But it's a bitter, pitched battle against that part of me who knows that they're not even okay for me, and never will be.

I'm a hard, diamond brain in a setting that will turn your finger green. Nobody wants me, and I still want somebody who can match me in conversation. I still discriminate. I still judge. Every man I meet is a disappointment. And I fight that battle and the stupid, soft part of me wins. I surrender to the guilt. I say yes. I give him a chance. But he's just not like me.

Nobody wants me. Kind, desperate men sometimes ask, but I am not one of them and they always learn as much more quickly than I would expect. Clever men never ask. Interesting and complex men never ask. Sane men never ask. Educated men, employed, articulate men never ask. Never ask my name. Never shake my hand. Never glance at me except to reiterate their social distance with some nonverbal sign. So I say yes to the kind ones and then despise both of us for being desperate.

I can hear my roommate's voice explaining to me "well of course, with an attitude like that. . ." but that's not my attitude. Didn't I just explain how I hope, every time? I know they're flawed (flawed? They're a different species! That's not a flaw, it's just a fact!), but I hope anyway. I hope that I'll change. That I'll soften. That I'll suddenly be okay with things I know I shouldn't be okay with. And I wrestle myself into saying "yes" when I should be true, like my cold, diamond brain. When I should be okay with lonely, because I'm the only one of my kind.

So I am planting my flag. My alien flag. My demon flag. My mutant flag. My warthog flag. I will say no. Because I trust myself to recognize a fellow warthog.

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