I've had a terrible time finding a girlfriend in San Francisco. It's not because the city's too gay and it's not for lack of trying. Since the New Year I've been on a mission to meet Ms Right. Yep, I'm looking for a girlfriend; someone to cuddle with, sleep with, watch videos with and hold hands with. Even talk with.
I've asked out exactly 38 women since the New Year. I know this because I keep a list - thought it would be kind of interesting in case one day I could look back on this and find it funny.
Here's the code I've worked out to keep track: LM (left message), SCB (she called back), ICB (I her called back), DNR (did not respond to my message), SC (she called me - unsolicited), DS (date set), BF (she's got a boyfriend or is getting over one), NFM (not for me), GD (good date) or GGD (real good) +K (kiss), +S (sex), BD (bad date), Cnld (flaked or cancelled).
I also rate them on a one to five desirability scale which comprises physical attractiveness, intellect, sex appeal, sense of humour and my final je-ne-sais-quoi measure.
Here's a typical line: Amy: (met on Earthday) 3.5, DS, 04/02/00, GD+K, 2nd DS, cnld, reset, GD+s, LM (2) - long wait . . . weird.
As you might have gleaned, things didn't work out with Amy. Turns out she'd had a wrenching break-up in December and didn't feel ready to start something new.
It seemed like it was all systems go with her - we even fooled around after the second date. But things got weird after she left town that weekend and we never got back on track after that.
Fourteen of the women for whom I've left messages never called back. Nine women already had boyfriends. I've been set up by mutual friends twice, met six women in bars, five in coffee shops and 26 in places ranging from garage sales to bus stops.
Still I'm single.
I'm 38 years old, been told (and not just by my mother) that I'm handsome; I work out, am university educated, well-travelled, reasonably well-read; I live in a good neighbourhood, know how to hold a fork, eat with my mouth closed, am reasonably articulate, self-supporting and I drive a motorcycle (women are supposed to dig that).
I have no addictions, no debts, don't fight in bars, don't dress in women's clothes, steal cars or snatch purses. I try to listen. I'm even involved with a men's group and sorting out issues from my past. Hell, I'm sensitive.
In short, I'm not perfect, but not entirely without some appeal.
By the way, this is not a long-winded singles ad (but, then again, if you're interested, San Francisco's really not that far away . . .).
I'd like to make the argument that the modern American woman is at least partly to blame for my circumstance. Actually, let's just chalk it up to modern times in San Francisco. Friends of mine of both sexes - particularly ex-pats from places like Ireland, France, and New Zealand - seem to be equally mystified by the locals. While I won't say they've had anywhere near the history of failure that I've logged over the past six months, they have their own stories of woe.
A New Zealander friend just moved to New York because, after eight years in San Francisco, she gave up on the prospect of ever meeting a man here. I wish her well, but wonder why the people would be any better over there. Two Irish women I know, Helen and Trish, both in their 30s, recently travelled to Seattle for the same reason - thinking that city might be a better place to meet someone.
Maybe it's that people these days - especially those of us over 30 - are too busy, too independent for relationships. We're up early keeping fit, working late, taking courses, cruising the Web, hanging out with friends and complaining about the opposite sex - who's got time for dating? (OK, I do, but I've got it easy, I'm a journalist.) "Everything is so fast-paced these days," says personal growth counsellor Sho Aoyagi. "People don't give each other a chance for things to work out. At the first sign of trouble, they bail."
Romantic difficulties are surely less pronounced in Europe. In August 1996 I moved to Paris for a year. Three days after I arrived, on a Saturday, I met Veronique. Two days later she invited me to move in with her. (I happily agreed and our whirlwind romance lasted about five to eight months - depending on if you believe her version or mine.)
So, let's see. In Paris I go one for one. Maybe No 38 will prove lucky for me here. Her name is Joy (a solid 3.0), she's from Arkansas and she has magical blue eyes. Tomorrow I'm taking her to dinner.
Wish me luck.