(Or Why I’ll Be Single Indefinitely)
By Sara Katherine Runnels
I was completely sober when I agreed to be in Time Out New York’s recent Singles Issue. My friend who works at the magazine mentioned they were in need of unabashed, ready-to-mingle spinsters who were willing to put themselves in a collective advertisement for the Single Population of New York. And rarely would I ever turn down an opportunity to have a “professional” photoshoot and tons of strangers filling my inbox with sordid, grammatically butchered reasons for being my next boyfriend. I have a tendency to make decisions based solely on how great the story might be after it’s over, and this social experiment seemed like the perfect addition to my collection of absurdly amazing adventures.
To be honest, I didn’t do it just for the entertainment value or to have my mug all over the city – I did it knowing perfectly well that beyond the initial weirdos and psychopaths, there might actually be a decent gentleman out there who I hadn’t already spilled a drink on or had a disastrous date with or dismissed based on their excessive use of emoticons. It wasn’t likely, but as a part-time hopeless romantic, I had faith in the odds.
It’s hard to say how long I’ve been single, but if I had to take a guess, I’d say it’s been about 3 years, 9 months and 17 days – basically, the entire amount of time I’ve lived in New York. It’s a reality I’ve embraced because this city makes it incredibly easy – there’s so much to enjoy and discover and experience on your own. But it was with the New Year and my lame resolutions that I realized Manhattan couldn’t be my boyfriend forever. Being in this issue was a leap into the unknown and a great chance to let the city know I was open for business. And I mean that in the least sexual way possible.
To begin the process, I received a few questions from the editor via email to answer about myself – Why am I a great catch? What kind of person am I looking for?, etc. I was instructed to “be funny, casual and specific” in my responses, which, to me, meant being as cute and as obnoxious as possible. I described myself as “a smart and sassy Southerner living in a real-life romantic comedy – one with significantly more comedy than romance. I’m a great spooner, I’ll play beer pong in heels, I’m constantly in a New York state of mind, and I never miss an opportunity to say, ‘that’s what she said’” – answers sure to capture the hearts of New York’s finest gentlemen.
Shortly after I submitted my survey, I was asked to come into the magazine’s offices for a photoshoot. I expected this part of the process to be a breeze, mostly because I have mastered the art of posing for pictures. Sure, most of those pictures are staged at 2AM at some random bar with one hand on my hip and one hand clutching a beer, but I still knew what I was doing. (We were allowed to bring props, but I thought a beer might be a little suggestive.) My posing experience, however, did not matter to the photographer who insisted I do ridiculous things like playfully fondle my necklace or put my arms behind my head or rest my hand awkwardly on my chin like some 1994 Glamour Shots shit. I did as he requested because I understood the need for variety, but I begged him to tell whoever was in charge that the one where I’m standing like a pageant contestant would be just fine.
From then on, I lived in fear of February 4th – the day the issue hit stands. I couldn’t sleep at night wondering if for the rest of my life I’d be online and in print with one eye half-open or with my arm caught uncomfortably in my necklace or – heaven forbid – my hands somewhere else than my hips. I also worried about having my pride shattered to pieces with an empty inbox. My friend at the magazine said she’s heard of people in past singles issues only receiving emails from 19-year-olds in Florida or absolutely no responses at all. I wondered if anyone else in the world had bigger problems than these.
A few weeks went by and my profile finally debuted online, and several days later, in print. The picture was acceptable (half pageant contestant, half awkward 3/4 turn, all eyes open), my new Time Out email address was set up, and I was ready for the opening scene of my romantic comedy to begin.
I knew some of my friends would immediately take this opportunity to entertain themselves, and so within the first few hours, I received emails like this:
Hi, I saw your ad in Time Out and I would like to marry you. How much?
And also: I enjoy listening to Lady Gaga and crushing beer cans against my skull. I have needs, but not many – mostly I just need someone to bathe me. I enjoy spooning and cuddling, but not snuggling, which I find disgusting. I also like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain.
My friend Michael even took the time to make up an email address and wrote to me saying: This knight in shining armor would love to rescue you, my queen. And attached a picture of an obese man dressed in a knight’s costume.
Then the real fun began.
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