Game Theory Explains the Dating Disparity?

A couple of articles focused on dating and the single woman’s dilemma have surfaced recently on several prominent Web sites. I wrote a critique of Mark Gimein's game theory article on Slate that alters my initial position on a Salon.com piece from 2005.

Originally part of my internship app, my critique goes to waste as they’ve already finished hiring for the summer (in that case, maybe update the Web site, eh?). Anyhow, enjoy:

In “The Eligible-Bachelor Paradox,” Mark Gimein begins with a fitting allusion to Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, referring to what he calls one of “the great riddles of social life”: the lack of single, eligible men in the dating pool. It has become an unquestionable part of conventional wisdom—indeed, a recurring theme in contemporary commentary on gender relations —that a surfeit of appealing, eligible women overwhelms an effete, flawed male population. Gimein offers an explanation for such an imbalance: because of a “women choose” model for marriage, females enter into an auction scenario in which “strong bidders,” realizing they have fine prospects for a mate, stubbornly hold out for Mr. Right. Meanwhile, the “weak bidders,” their less appealing sisters, bid early and aggressively, thereby securing husbands while simultaneously draining the dating pool of quality, one man at a time.

As a woman who has dated extensively in New York City—arguably the nation’s dating disparity capital (if one is to use social statistics and pop culture references like Sex and the City as indicators)—I am in the awkward position of wanting very much to believe Gimein’s theory, personally, but finding it difficult to uphold, intellectually. While the author’s use of game theory and economics offers the comfort of academic rigor to illuminate the eligible-bachelor paradox, I challenge the basic premise that there are significantly more “attractive, eligible women” out there than “highly eligible and appealing men.” This underlying assumption also serves as the basis for Benjamin Kunkel’s commentary on Salon, as well as Lori Gottlieb’s “Buy It Now” argument posed in The Atlantic, referenced at the end of Gimein’s essay.

Perceptions of such an overwhelming disparity merit closer examination if they are to be used to advocate going on a massive sexual strike or settling for a loveless marriage, as the other two authors suggest. I use the word “perception” deliberately, because the flaw I see in Gimein’s argument rests with the definition of “strong bidders”—a perceived group of fantastic women who are underserved by the male population. Many of my single female friends possess the qualities generally associated with “strong bidders”: they are attractive, educated, and charming. During late-night chats with such friends, these traits are cited as evidence that men have it easier in the dating world because attractive, single women abound. I listened to and participated in such talks to the point that this dating gap—the eligible-bachelor paradox—registered in our collective consciousness as undisputed fact.

But I had to step back and take a closer look at my perennially single female friends. While each satisfies the loose definition of a “strong bidder,” they also tend to have various fundamental flaws that fall into a general category of emotional/personality issues, which disqualify them as the “great catches” so heavily advertised. This slippery quality—complex and specific to each woman, and therefore not easily generalizable to entire populations—is usually omitted from the criteria of “strong bidders,” despite the significant role it must play in the actual world of dating. And since such personality flaws are not as overtly apparent as height or underemployment (to borrow Gimein’s examples of male imperfection), they also manage to go undetected until much later in the dating game. Thus, where Gimein sees an abundance of single, attractive women, I see a number of single, attractive women who—although “strong bidders” by his definition—possess just as many deal breakers, although better concealed, as the men he calls “notably imperfect.” While I concede that a dating disparity exists, I believe it is on a much smaller scale than popularly imagined: many of the perceived “strong bidders” in this particular auction are simply bluffing.

The Universality of Creepy

In New York I spent a considerable amount of time by myself at local cafés, bookstores, and parks. Lacking the protection of the pack or the deterrent posed by a male companion, I became familiar with all sorts of strange behavior of my fellow denizens; it gave me a warped perception that normalcy was something that existed elsewhere—that anywhere was better than New York City.

For people like me, the iPod is the greatest invention ever, creating a mobile, separate sphere of space and privacy to enshroud my daily commute. It also serves as a practical excuse to ignore others within the intimate proximity thrust upon us by urban life: the subway ride, busy sidewalks, and intrusive individuals. Pointless small talk, awkward silences, and shifty-eyed glances dissolve with the overwhelming need to switch to a new song at the very moment—coincidentally, of course—when interaction is pending.

In Denmark I do not spend much time by myself in public. I am either on a mission (groceries and class), with a companion, or at home. From what I have experienced thus far, most Danes tend to mind their own business. I like that.

But not today. After receiving the final exam questions at the end of class, I biked to the Statsbiblioteket to dispute a claim I had received in the post about an overdue book. My voice carries, and as I stood in the atrium of the second-floor lobby, I explained calmly that I had returned Down and Out in Paris and London on the very same day I returned Christopher Hitchens’ The Trial of Henry Kissinger back in October. The notice informed me that I would be charged 20 kroner per day until the library received the book back. “Will you please check your records again?” I asked the clerk. He excused himself to inspect the tower for the missing book.

I sat down at one of the computers. As I typed in my CPR number, I sensed the man to my right looking over. After a minute, he spoke. I ignored him. He spoke again:

• “How do you have such a strong accent?”
• “What do you mean?”
• “I heard you speaking, and it is very intense.”
• “I returned a book over a month ago, and they’re claiming they never received it. I personally handed it to the clerk last time. He’s going to check and see if the book is there.”
• “That happened to me, too. They charge so much. You should always get a receipt because they don’t get it right all the time.”
• “Yes, I’ve learned my lesson.”

I resumed typing. He continued:

• “So where did you learn to speak English?”
• “I’m American.”
• “Oh, you grew up there? Where?”
• “California, but most recently in New York City.”
• “I have always wanted to visit. How do you like it here? How is it different?”

I gave him the usual answers about Scandinavian design, New York multiculturalism, and Danish egalitarianism. After a few minutes, I stopped asking follow-up questions to signal my desire to end the conversation. But he blathered on at a desultory pace, like the overnight guest who—not taking the cue that minutes of silence and steady, deliberate breathing indicate a tacit agreement to sleep—violates the peace by asking an open-ended, complex question on a fresh topic in the middle of the night. After losing patience, I logged off and stood up. “Well, have a good night,” I said. He looked alarmed.

• “Why don’t you stay longer?”
• “I have a final exam to write. So I’ve got to get going now. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
• “But you could stay longer so we can...talk.”
• “I really can’t. I just received this paper topic this afternoon and I have to get started.”
• “When will you be back?”
• “I probably won’t be back. I’m leaving Denmark soon. I’m returning to New York. So have a great night.”

He grabbed a white square of paper from the stack between our computers. I did not care for the deliberate way in which he shoved his black book bag away so there would be no barriers between us. By now, Danes at nearby tables were taking notice of the situation. He pointed to the paper.

• “Let’s write to each other.”
• “What? You want my e-mail address?”
• “Yes.”

I paused. A brief flashback from my Paris days emerged from the depths of memory as I recalled the hassles that ensued when I had refused to give my phone number. Had it been worth it? I opted for the easy exit by writing down my spam e-mail address. “Write in big, clear letters,” he instructed cheerfully. I handed him the paper and picked up my bag. He read each letter very carefully aloud for confirmation. I turned to leave, but he scribbled something on another sheet of paper and handed it to me. I glanced at it quickly: his name appeared to be Henrik and there was a “DK” in the address. I stuffed it (too carelessly) into my bag. “Will you be back here tomorrow at 5 PM?” he wanted to know. I shook my head and said good night for the last time.

He mumbled about writing to me and something about dinner on Thursday. But I was already ten feet away after having spotted a classmate at a computer kiosk. “What was that all about?” she asked with an amused look. “Did you witness that entire thing?” I replied in disbelief. “No. Well, at first I heard you say ‘good night.’ Then I heard you say it about five more times.”

As I prepare to leave Denmark, it is a timely reminder to take a balanced view, even beyond New York. Alongside modernist, astonishing feats of Scandinavian architecture exist drab, Communist-era slabs of concrete that shelter and insult their inhabitants. And for every stimulating, Weltanschauung-altering individual encountered, there is also that bothersome—though painfully earnest—person sitting to your right at the computer lab.

Sincerity aside, one thing is certain: I will not be anywhere near the library around 5 PM for the rest of my stay in Denmark.

Days of Being Mild

Yes, I now realize I’m holding a Lazio scarf (and that it is upside down)

It’s been a rigorous social calendar lately...

Thursday: Dinner/Movie Night

I had cooking duty this time

Globalization gone awry: Martin applies wasabi to his quesadilla

I made crispy won tons and soft tacos (sharing my precious Cholula hot sauce imported from the States!) for our weekly dinner and movie night. Sigrid baked a traditional Danish cake, topped with crème fraiche. We watched Flags of our Fathers afterwards since Martin, the guy with horrible movie tastes, left early for a party.

Friday: Party at Nielsenhaus

A very special beverage from Belarus

It was the “Dress like your favorite dictator—just kidding” party at the Kiwi’s spacious flat. If you have a themed party, you can’t make it optional. Nobody dressed up. It’s too bad I chucked my Hugo Chávez costume. I thought, “Why would I need this in Denmark?”

Daniel’s wife, Sara, sporting an interesting shirt dress

Jessica, an American, chats with Fuchun

Chetna is a good sport (and this shot had some accidental lighting/exposure effect)

Thousands of miles away from W’burg and the East Village, hipsters flourish.

Saturday: The Tour des Chambres

A sober start: farmer Sigrid dines with football ref Martin

The much-anticipated Tour des Chambres did not disappoint.

To refresh your memory: the Tour des Chambres involves all members of the suite. Each person picks a theme for her room and decorates it accordingly (costume optional). She also picks an alcoholic beverage to go with that theme. Individuals are assigned cooking, cleaning, or grocery duties. We eat dinner together, and then draw room numbers out of a hat. When your number comes up, you go to your room, prepare the drinks for all members, and invite everyone in. The party continues until we’ve visited all rooms.

Heidi in her goth/cutter outfit; pasta for dinner

This year, we only had six participants (a relief for me; if you know my tolerance level, the thought of my consuming twelve drinks is frightening). Since I have instituted fiscal austerity measures, I opted for something easy: a Brooklyn artist/photographer’s minimalist Williamsburg studio. I wore all black.

Sigrid dressed like a traditional Danish farmer; Fuchun chose a Chinese moon festival theme, complete with moon cakes and Chinese alcohol; Morten had a yuppie, colorful ‘80s room, outfit, and cocktails; Heidi slashed up a shirt and wore leather pants to promote her S&M, goth room (which had knives, scissors, candles, and Marilyn Manson music); and my favorite: Martin’s football room.

Room number 12

The ‘80s room (that blazer is even more horrible in person)

To create a little DIY fun with my lazy theme, I asked each person to use my point-and-shoot Canon to create MySpace-like self portraits. Then I had people pair up and asked them to “surprise me” with a photograph or series of photographs; we then left them alone in my room. The winning team would get some kind of prize. First, the self portraits (I forgot to do mine!):

Next, the team portrait competition:

Team 1: Sigrid & Heidi

Team 2: Fuchun and Martin

Team 3: Robin & Morten (the clear winners; I am wearing his blazer)

The evening’s unrelenting flow of booze pressed on, paused only by a brief midnight feeding frenzy. I almost lost it in the ‘80s room. The cream in the shots of the football room made me reel. I think I had close to nine drinks.

Unintended portrait of my neck

Danish beer

Soused

Welcome to the football room...

ARSENAL!!!!!!

Dancing to Danish music

In the last room (S&M), slurred speech filled the air as we crashed on the animal print blankets, dangerously placed near a tray of candles. Headbanger music raged on. I remember snapping some incriminating photographs of Heidi and Martin.

The final frontier

Playacting? You be the judge.

Martin kept removing my shoes and placing them near the candle flames. He muttered something about fire and velvet, and then stumbled into the hallway. That was his last appearance for the night. Fuchun passed out on the bed, his face obscured by a Dr. Seuss-like Silkeborg football hat. Heidi and Sigrid chatted in Danish.

You are getting veeerrrrrrry sleepy

Update: 6 October 2007
Faithful readers will notice I have removed the remaining portion of this post. It is a mea culpa to expunge from the public record any damning evidence that will surely be used against me for years to come about my already well-documented cluelessness. Much gratitude to the blog’s ombudsman, NP, for steering me straight. And, more importantly: apologies to the affected (and much adored) party, DL.

How hard it is to be a boy

A year and a half ago, Salon published an interview with young novelist Benjamin Kunkel that offered an honest, keen perspective on the consumerist dating scene in New York. Today, it has published the antithesis: the whining manifesto of a self-absorbed twit in search of a wife.

Eric Schaeffer, a 45-year-old filmmaker/actor, publishes a weblog called “I Can’t Believe I’m Still Single.” He complains about “how hard it is to be a boy.” There are too many salacious, incredible details to recount here without rewriting the article, so see it to believe it.

Sadly, there is one Benjamin Kunkel for every 100 Eric Schaeffers in New York City. And if these are my odds, and the other choice—so skilfully addressed in “Couple Brought Together Through Mutual Desperation” on The Onion—is all I have, then I can believe I’m still single.

You can never replace anyone.

Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy in Before Sunset

I watched Before Sunset again. Celine, Julie Delpy's character, says a few words on the boat that are incredibly moving and emotional to me, because I could’ve said them verbatim:

I always feel like a freak because I'm never able to move on like…this! You know. People just have an affair, or even entire relationships. They break up and they forget. They move on like they would have changed brand of cereals.

I feel I was never able to forget anyone I've been with because each person…they own specific qualities. You can never replace anyone. What is lost is lost.

Each relationship, when it ends, really damages me. I never fully recover. That's why I'm very careful with getting involved, because it hurts too much—even getting laid. I actually don't do that…because I will miss of the person the most mundane things.

Like I'm obsessed with little things. Maybe I'm crazy, but...When I was a little girl, my mom told me that I was always late to school. One day she followed me to see why. I was looking at chestnuts falling from the trees rolling on the sidewalk or ants crossing the road...the way a leaf casts a shadow on a tree trunk—little things.

I think it's the same with people. I see in them little details, so specific to each of them that move me and that I miss and…will always miss.

You can never replace anyone because everyone is made of such beautiful, specific details.

My ability to remember minute details is both a blessing and a curse. I can remember what I was wearing on April 1^st of last year; I recall what I ate that day. I remember patterns on wallpaper, smells and textures, the titles of books on bookshelves, and dialogue like movie scripts.

I look back fondly on my time in Paris. I remember how elegant Boyfriend #2 looked in his black ribbed sweater when he emerged from the shadows that evening at the Louvre, our rendezvous spot. He smelled of fresh laundry detergent. I wanted to kiss him immediately, so I did. I remember laughing loudly in the Jardin des Tuileries as he effortlessly tossed me over his shoulder and carried me across the lawn when I told him I was too heavy to lift. I remember holding hands near the Seine at night and the smell of his aftershave as I sat on his lap whilst a tourist boat floated by, shining its spotlight on us. I remember his valiant efforts to give me a copy of The Da Vinci Code, and how I resisted, explaining to him why Dan Brown sucks. I remember his coconut shampoo that I borrowed, and how I could still detect the faint scent in my hair the next day. I recall waking up at 5 AM to the smell of powdered coffee coming from the kitchen; it tasted as good as anything served in the cafés on the street below. When we said goodbye on the Metro—he was going to class, I was going to be a tourist—he stood up in the middle of the train and kissed me in front of everyone. It felt natural.

I also remember motorbike guy and how we watched Jane Fonda debating a panel of guests in elementary French on a talk show. I remember the odd inflection to his voice and the way it rose an octave whenever he disagreed with me. I remember how quickly he devoured his yogurt after dinner, and the meticulous way in which he poured a little pile of sugar on top of it first (careful not to spill). I also remember the light rain that fell as he drove me back to my flat on his motorcycle late at night, and how we stopped at a traffic light along the Seine. The city was silent and practically deserted; the reflection of light on the wet pavement made everything glow. He put his hand on mine and drove with one hand for the rest of the ride back. Memory can be a wonderful thing.

All I need to do is think back to a time, and I can conjure up a moment from eight years ago better than most people can remember last week. But sometimes I am jealous of people with bad memories. They are usually men (NPR aired a story on this called "Why Men Never Remember and Women Never Forget"). They can forget things so easily, and place them into little files to shove away for the time being. Memories are bittersweet when they represent beautiful moments that are forever lost.

That is why I am never able to forget someone. I notice in people such specific qualities and behaviors, and I miss them—even the most trivial things. One person used to do something most people would never notice: when walking down the street, if we happened upon a fire hydrant, person, or any obstruction, he would never let it come between us. He would always walk right next to me, even if it meant taking a slightly longer path. I noticed and appreciated it. To this day, I look for that behavior in others and make silent predictions in my head based on their performance. No one has done it since.

You can never replace anyone.

MisMatch.com

So I’m sitting here at my favorite café drinking tea whilst writing my letter of motivation. I took a break to watch some Maradona clips: the famous “hand of God” goal and the “goal of the century”—both from the 1986 England-Argentina World Cup match.

Argentinians have a term called gambetta, which describes nerve and impossible skill in the beautiful game. Maradona epitomized gambetta in the “goal of the century,” in which he dribbles past six English defenders to score. I love his explanation to Gary Lineker about the “hand of God” goal: it was like “pick-pocketing the English”; it wasn’t cheating. You see him taking a couple of quick, nervous glances at the officials before celebrating. So in the same spectacular game, Maradona exhibited the duality of gambetta to the world: superhuman talent combined with a questionable craftiness.

Last night I caught a glimpse of my World Cup boyfriend, Hugo Viana, scoring a goal for Valencia. I got a lot of flack when he missed that big free kick during the Cup. Text messages poured in to the tune of “Your boyfriend can’t shoot.” But, he looks pretty damn good. He turns 24 tomorrow. Tengo que ir a la España.

Hugo gets the thumbs up from me

Celebrating the 3-1 penalty kick shootout win over England

So back to the original intent of this post: during a pause between Maradona clips, I overheard the guy behind me talking about Match.com. I shut off the audio on my laptop, but kept my earphones in. I quickly realized what was going on: the Asian dude and a white woman behind me were on a first Match.com date.

Here are snippets from their conversation:

• He said: “Yes, I’ve met a few people on Match.com before.” [read: I’ve met 28 women in the past month.]
• She said: “I’ve only had one other meeting on this thing. It was very pleasant. We went to an art gallery. I prefer to keep the first date to a casual meeting, and I don’t like talking on the phone much at first.” [read: He didn’t ring me back.]
• She said: “I’m hoping it’s not a lot of these first meetings and that’s it. It takes a while to build a connection.” [read: He didn't ring me back. I’ve got a great personality.]
• She said: “What I would like to see happen is…let’s say after I talk to you, we’ll just feel free to email and talk some more, you know? I’m even happy to meet people for friendships. It doesn’t have to be all serious or sad.” [read: I’ve got to weigh my options, and if I do contact you later and you don’t respond, it doesn’t mean I was really interested.]

Then it gets bad:

• She said: “Some people go by pictures. What do you go by, from a guy’s perspective?” [read: Did you think I was hot?]
• She said: “I’m interested in hearing your views on religion.” [read: I’m going to totally judge you on this one. Answer carefully.]

Then, the bastards at the café started to turn up the music, right when it was getting interesting. Luckily, I was able to strain to hear more:

• He responds, “Hmm, I’ve been meaning to go to church, but…” [read: I’m trying to be politic about this, but I’m slowly responding to gauge your reaction before deciding what’s the proper answer.]
• She says, “My mom says I should go to church to meet a nice guy, but I’m not going to do that.” [read: I’m above certain things.]
• He says, “Yes, when you can go on the Internet to find a nice guy.” [read: You’ve got me, sweetcheeks.]
• Then she started talking about her ex-boyfriend and the Tamil Tigers [read: I’ve got an interesting past filled with fascinating lovers. You should feel lucky to be in consideration.]
• And then about her Masters program and her Ph.D and how her professor was this “fatuous, crazy guy.” [read: I’m smart and well-educated and independent. Until week 3, when I will ring you constantly and call you my boyfriend.]

Okay, then I tuned out. I started watching more football clips. Oh wait, now they are talking about eHarmony. She says she never meets financial guys on that site. Now they are talking about travel. There is no chemistry going on here. But I bet they will go out again.

I am a bit of a voyeur. But I would like something with a bit more drama. So I think I may go watch 24.

The Art of Gaman

The ceiling of the Bellagio Hotel lobby, Las Vegas

Cranberries suspended in water at the Bellagio, Las Vegas

The Japanese have names for concepts that do not exist in the West. One of them is called gaman. In the simplest terms, it means enduring and tolerating the unbearable with strength and dignity. Think World War II internment camps. Think of the 442^nd Regimental Combat Team. Think of the eerie silence amongst the Hiroshima and Nagasaki survivors in the aftermath of the atomic bombings. That’s gaman.

My great aunt and uncle celebrated their 50^th wedding anniversary here in Vegas. Everyone wanted to know the key to a lasting, happy marriage. My 83-year-old great uncle, a veteran of the 442^nd, cited trust, compromise, love, good communication, and above all, respect.

December 22, 1956

Then my great aunt made a case for gaman. In the 1950s, women exercised gaman for their shogun husbands. Today, people are unwilling to endure even moderate discomfort and disquietude—not a winning formula for successful relationships, which all require work. She then described the evolving concept of gaman for modern times, one in which both partners exercise patience and endurance.

It’s easy to argue that they grew up in a simpler time with limited choices and lower expectations. But with divorce so prevalent and people searching for answers (note this New York Times Most Frequently E-Mailed article), to whom else should we go for advice? Is it a random self-help author or our group of peers, tainted by collective, desultory experiences? Or is it the couple celebrating a golden wedding anniversary?

Choked up with emotion, my great uncle said, “When the game is on the line, Alice is always there.”

I choose gaman.

The Big Apple: Something’s Rotten

My favorite play by J.M. Barrie, made famous most recently by Finding Neverland, isn’t Peter Pan—it’s What Every Woman Knows. Written in 1908, the play’s revelatory response^* to the title’s implied question needs an update for the times and a particular place: New York City.

Every unattached woman here knows the dire state of the dating scene. And please spare me the predictable, uproarious response I get from male colleagues about how it’s the same for guys and all such nonsense. It’s not. Which is why I was so pleased to read Salon’s interview with Benjamin Kunkel, young author of the much-hyped Indecision, a novel chronicling the transformation of one such vapid urbanite, suffering from a "crisis in American masculinity," who currently thrives in the city that never sleeps.

I’ve been talking about the consumerist mentality that dominates the New York dating scene for a while now. So when Kunkel not only referenced that notion, but fleshed it out by comparing a sense of destiny to buying new pants, I was transfixed:

Partly, a model of shopping has overtaken our experience of romance. Love, historically, has been associated with a sensation of destiny. It's very difficult for us to attain a sensation of destiny where love is concerned anymore, because we think we can always look for something better, which is essentially a shopper's mentality. There's no destiny when it comes to buying pants or shirts or a dress. There'll be the nicest thing you can afford this season. But then a new season will [bring] more attractive styles and you'll actually be able to afford something better. I think that tremendous passion that we feel other generations had and that we missed was attached to a sense of destiny, and of permanent love that would survive changes in station and opportunity and fortune.

He goes on to describe New York as a breeding ground for “disposable relationships” and even suggests women go on a sexual strike, but not in a prudish sense: “You need to make an old-fashioned masculine distinction between sex and love. Just find some guy and use him. The guys you want love from? Give them nothing.”

And then he goes for the jugular, saying something a woman could not state without having her credibility, desirability, and everything else brought to question:

I have a sense that particularly in New York…there is a super-abundance of attractive, intelligent young women whom a man is very unlikely to be worthy of, who nevertheless set a higher value on him than he sets on them. This makes any sort of decision very difficult. Because to constantly be exposed to people whom you are unworthy of to begin with, yet who want you more than you want them, is confusing.

An incident from last weekend supports part of his theory (hint: I play the attractive, intelligent young woman in this scenario). After an evening of bar crawling in the Lower East Side, I tacitly agreed to be wingman for my friend Rachel. After 4 AM, we ended up hanging out at Jeremy’s** flat, where I chatted with his wingman, Jake. Somehow Jake ended up showing me his comic book drawings. “I want to create a comic book backed by a soundtrack,” he revealed, his breath heavy with whisky. Unimpressed but bored, I encouraged him to go on. The hero, called “The Troubleshooter” (or something equally horrendous), also went by the name "Nick" during off hours. “Doesn’t he look tough and hardened?” he asked, trying to lead me to conclusions like a fledgling trial lawyer. I nodded after much drunken deliberation. “But he also looks a bit…racist,” I suddenly concluded: it was the wife-beater and peculiar facial lines. We started to argue as Rachel and Jeremy began to make out in the background. “He fights for the rights of all,” he protested. “Looks like he fights for the rights of whites to me,” I countered.

As this compelling conversation wore on, we finally got to Book Three. Jake moved in closer. “Look, you’re relieved of your wingman duties,” I assured him. “Oh, I gave up my wingman duties hours ago,” he professed. Some black-and-white photos slipped out of the trilogy as I flipped through a treatment for a script of some sort. “Those are pictures of my cat,” Jake said. I thumbed through them and noticed a picture of a girl. I pressed for info. “Oh, that’s my girlfriend,” he said nonchalantly. I wonder what she says about these comics, I thought. We continued talking as the sun rose. Someone suggested opening up a bottle of champagne.

Jake leaned in and whispered a pick-up line. I scoffed and said, “Dude, you have a girlfriend!” to which he replied, “Don’t you have a boyfriend?” As Rachel and Jeremy laughed and sipped champagne on the rug, I shook my finger at Jake and declared, “Guys like you are the scourge of the New York dating scene. You are exactly what’s wrong with this place. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Unabashed, he explained that they had an open relationship and that this was "totally cool." It was not cool with me.

A few hours later I woke up and struggled—but failed—to shake Jake awake. I, alone, remembered he had to go to work (at a comic book store, where he claimed to earn $6/hour) by 11. He ended up waking up late, borrowing my phone to call the store, and jetting off, leaving his keys behind in a scattered flurry. Later in the week I got word from Rachel through Jeremy that Jake was, in fact, homeless. Yes, he lived with his girlfriend every now and then, and couch-crashed the rest of the time. So there you have it: a 5’7,” $6/hr-earning***, homeless, 30-year-old, mediocre-comic-book-drawing lad has no trouble finding a girl willing to put up with such shenanigans. As for me: you need not express surprise any longer when I gleefully mention my Joy Division dance parties for one—the loneliest number, perhaps, but I learned to troubleshoot my own problems long ago.

*Read the play if you want to know what every woman knew back then (and what we still know today)—it’s quite good.
**Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
***Please note: I do not care about height and income, but am going by the ostensible "standards" of our lackluster population.