I am in my early 30s. I am educated, have a good job, and own my own condo; I take care of my body and have a terrific laugh that I have no qualms about belting out. I did the get-a-hobby/join-a-club/take-a-class thing to try to meet people of the same ilk, hoping some common interests might equal some sparkage. Lots of annoying really young twentysomethings later, I did the online thing . . . the same 15 assholes keep clicking yes and trying to date me (most of whom are so freshly divorced or separated, they still smell like their ex’s perfume). There was a random nice guy or two in there who, for whatever reason, I didn’t feel that spark and desire to rip my or his clothes off or cohabit with, merge DNA with at some point in the future, or whatever.

Imperfections and quirky goodness are not a problem; bring it on, I say. We are all human! My sex drive is excellent! I am in my prime, for chrissakes! WTF? I am not some marriage-minded clock-ticker or an uptight perfection seeker. If it happens, it happens—woo hoo, yay for me. If it doesn’t, that’s OK, too. I just want to date, have some fun, maybe travel a little, and have a lot of ass-slapping, sweaty sex. There is a secret place where people go, and you are holding out, I am sure of it!

Tired of Watching Porn

You caught me! It’s true that I have a secret room in a dark corner of my tiny apartment. Inside, it’s packed chock-full of handsome eligible bachelors with bank accounts and sex drives. I’ve collected the type of guy who’s butch enough to fix the toilet, but still girly enough to sit and watch Blow Out with me. These men are just as comfortable in jeans as they are in black tie, and they know from hair product, but know better than to abuse it. They’re yearning for a girl like you, but I’m hoarding them away in case things with my large Greek don’t work out.

Of course, that’s a big fat lie. The problem is, you’re looking at this whole dating thing the wrong way. You think because you’ve got a job and a condo and are reasonably attractive, it would follow that you’d, of course, have a dashing boyfriend to top off the package. That somehow you deserve a nice boyfriend. But look around you. That’s not the way it works.

How many perfectly awful bitches do you know who never have a man shortage? I know plenty. Along the same lines, how many undeserving jackasses do you know with lovely girlfriends? A lot, right?

See, the thing is, a relationship is not a merit-based reward. Of course it helps a great deal if you are relatively sane, of normal height-weight ratio, and able to read without moving your lips, but none of these qualities is a requirement. Hell, I once dated a guy who used a pile of dirty sweaters as a pillow!

Finding someone takes two things—luck and timing. All the other requirements you hear about are bullshit. (OK, they’re not complete bullshit—a hot ass and a nice rack help—but they’re not nearly as important as L&T.)

Which is why you have to be out there. So the same old guys keep answering your personal ad; ignore them. Eventually, there’ll be new ones. You meet annoying children at one class, sign up for another. Or better yet, audit the class first so you can check out the demographics. Talk to people and be friendly. Not just to men; women know and are related to men, and the nice ones will fix you up. Tell your friends you’re looking and then just relax.

There is only so much you can do. I’m not going to lie and say once you quit looking, you’ll find someone (I cannot tell you how many times I heard this, and it’s just an out-and-out lie); but like the song goes, you can’t hurry love.

Be happy with your life, be patient, and it’ll work itself out.

And if it gets to be a year or more, stop by and I’ll loan you one of my extras.

Things just not working out? Write Dategirl at dategirl@seattleweekly.com or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.