Recently, I celebrated my 30th birthday. And it appears that the entire male population of my city got the message. I say this, because it seems that overnight, my options have changed. Gone is the single man, unencumbered and afraid of commitment. He has been replaced with the divorced man, encumbered by alimony, child support, and kids . . . and afraid of commitment. How this switcheroo happened, I will never know. But it appears that I am treading much the same shark infested waters as before, but the sharks have been through at least one bad marriage which they can point to in order to justify their player ways.
The first candidate I met can only be described as my FGF, my Fluffy Girl Fantasy. For those of you who are not aware, mainly because you were not and never have been fluffy (damn you to Hades) the FGF is the guy that in high school you always promised that you would land 10 years later. He’s the guy that would come with your new body and massive amounts of disposable income. He’s the guy you would take to your 10 year high school reunion just so you could show everyone how damn fabulous you became! Okay, I’m regressing. Anyway, he was the brass ring. And interestingly enough, he expressed a marked interest in me. He was also in the process of a divorce, and with a soon to be ex-wife in California was on the “out of sight, out of mind” tip. He had two children (one in town, one with the soon to be ex-wife) and a determination to cut a swath through the entire female population of our fair city. Starting, it seems, with me. We had fun . . . there was plenty of witty banter, lots of alcohol involved, and at least one make-out session behind one of the many dive clubs our city has to offer.
Then came the inevitable invite home. I always assumed that divorced men would a least be a little rusty on their game. As I fought off the four hands he grew, I realized that I was clearly mistaken. It seems that the one advantage God gave the recent divorcee is an overabundance of game. I now believe that married men, like squirrels, store up their game for the inevitable cold winter they see coming. Within seconds, there was a hand up my skirt, a tongue down my throat, and an unhooked bra digging into my back . . . it was like an After School Special. After pulling myself together and belatedly lodging my objections to his still married status, he hit me with possibly the stupidest reasoning I have ever heard. He explained that he really wasn’t married due to a snafu in filing and therefore was really not in the process of getting a divorce, although his lawyer advised him to still get one. I know, I know, let the ridiculousness sink in. Now clearly, based on this interaction, I’m a complete ho, but I definitely am not stupid. I rolled my eyes and wrenched myself away with my dignity (and clothing) relatively intact and beat a path out of his lair. Needless to say, I didn’t call him again and he moved on to easier prey, specifically, an embryo by the name of Tiffany.
Three weeks later, opportunity reared its ugly head yet again. I had decided to allow my loins, not my ego, to make my next choice, and it chose a doozey. He was funny, handsome, and smart. He also had two ex-wives and four children. My loins ignored the flatbed of baggage pulling up behind him. Over the next couple of months we hung out and got to know each other; I met his friends, he tried my lasagna. But my loins urged for a faster disposition in this matter. In order to get my brain to look the other way on this less than genius choice (my loins only have a fourth grade education) I did what any self-respecting female in a similar situation would do (I got a bottle of Patron and I got sh*tfaced). The next morning, I awoke with a rolling stomach, and gum tangled in the bird’s nest of hair on top of my head. My loins sighed, content. My mind however, was horrified at what had happened while it was on it’s tequila soaked vacation.
A week later, I was getting the oh-so predictable “I’m not ready to get serious with anyone right now” speech. Clearly, the single men have been sharing their material with the recently divorced. We still speak, but now with that awkward, stilted tone of two people who have unadvisedly seen each other naked. But I have learned a valuable lesson from my first few months as a 30 year old single woman. The man may change, but the game remains the same.