What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Friday, April 15, 2011

Stop Setting Me Up


      Don’t you hate it when someone tries to set you up? I sure do. Instead of taking a chance, I examine the offer closely to determine the motivation. There’s really nothing in it for the person playing Cupid, so why the set-up? If she says she’s just being nice, I call “bullshit.” Why should anyone else care whether her acquaintance and I are happily mating?
      Motives:
1.       Cupid already has a boyfriend/husband, but is considering ending the lease. At first glance, I appear to be a viable option. (She obviously hasn’t read my books.) Cupid doesn’t want to take the chance, so she sets me up with a friend of hers who is, as expected, not quite as good-looking as she is. This way she can monitor the situation and find my flaws by nagging the piss out of her friend: “How’s it going? Are you in love? Is he a good kisser?”
2.       Cupid is annoyed beyond words by her friend’s constant whining about how nobody loves her. Cupid is tired of hearing about the victim’s diet du jour, new hair color, and extreme fitness regimen. It’s either find her a man or buy her a puppy (or vibrator, for that matter).
3.       Cupid is bored with the routine she has with her man. Their dates are mundane, his friends are immature, and she longs for double dates with a sympathetic ear to discuss fashion trends and The Bachelor, while her man and his playmates perform the mental equivalent of hopscotch.
4.       Cupid is jealous of my single life and needs to end it before she becomes tempted to join it. She hates that I can go out when I want without waiting for hair ironing, I save 50% on each tab, and all of my party invitations are returned with a “+0.”
5.       Cupid can’t discuss her relationship with her friend and this is inconvenient. Every time Cupid brings up anything positive about her relationship—simultaneous orgasms, upgrading his wardrobe, the trip to Cabo he surprised her with—her friend descends deeper into depression.
6.       The emotional and physical investment in keeping Cupid’s friend from the ledge is overbearing. Text after text after voicemail after happy hour bottle of chardonnay, which turns into a late-night bender, cab ride home, and a none-too-pleased boyfriend wondering why Cupid must play life coach.
      I had it happen again this weekend.
      “You have got to meet my friend, Beatrice.”
      “Why?”
      “Because you two would make a nice couple.”
      “What makes you think that?”
      “She’s pretty and smart. You’ll like her.”
      “Is she as pretty and smart as you?”
      “Almost.”
      “Pass.”
      “Don’t be a douche. Just meet her and see what happens.”
      “Fine, but you probably won’t like what happens.”
      Ten minutes later, Cupid walks up holding her friend’s hand (read: dragging her).
      “Phil, this is my friend Beatrice.”
      “Nice to meet you, Beatrice.”
      Beatrice is not almost as pretty so, as mean as it sounds, I don’t give a flying fuck how smart she is. Now what? Cupid stares at me with eyes that say, Well? Well? What do you think? Strollers, dogs, and a home in the country?
      My eyes say, Where’s a fire drill when I need one?
      I played nice but made it known that I wasn’t interested. I anticipate a scolding from Cupid the next time I run into her. Sure, I’m fucked up because I am attracted to women out of my league. I can’t help it. Keep your arrows holstered, woman. I’m wearing a metal vest protecting my heart and my vision ain’t failed me yet.

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