WE'VE GOT A BLEEDER!

For some reason the bubble I live in thinks that not having a wife at the age of 28 means you're on the verge of dying.  Either that, or all you Utahns wonder if I'm now batting for the other team, I have no idea.  And if you didn't understand that last sports reference to homosexuality, well shame on you.

For full effect, download "No Scrubs" by TLC and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I L-word my friends. Seriously I do. All of you reading this I would most likely consider to be a part of my circle of trust.  You really are that awesome.  But for some reason every time we have a conversation longer than 15 seconds why must you ask about my relationship status being single?  And why do you then begin frantically rummaging through your stockpiled list of socially awkward projects in hopes of saving my soul from the mortal damnation of being alone? It makes no sense!

Me: "Yeah, things have been goin' great for me. I've got no complaints."

You: "That's wonderful.  Well are you dating anyone these days?"

Me: "Not really, I date quite a bit but nothing really serious or anything."

Cue shocked/confused/WTF look flashing across your face.

You: "MEDIC! WE'VE GOT A BLEEDER HERE! GET THIS MAN A WIFE, STAT!"

That's the closest description I can come up with to explain how freaked out you come off when I tell you I haven't sent out any wedding invites yet. You piss your pants in panic and grab the nearest stick figure with a skirt and offer her to me like some biblical sacrificial lamb.

Crazy You: "Here Brock, take this maiden. Yes she's $40k in debt, has a full goatee, and was on the most recent episode of "Hoarders", but she is clean, and also in need of a mate. Take her, wed her, and go procreate.  She is yours."

Or there is the psychic premonition that some of you loonies get, convinced that a spiritual prophecy or some dream-like revelation has shown you whom I must be with, when in reality you probably just huffed a little too much Potpourri last night while watching “The Notebook”.

Crazy You: "I just want to tell you that I have had a very strong feeling that this girl, this 41-year old woman with nine cats and three kids, who has no college degree and thinks it's OK to go on blind dates in her pajamas, I just have a feeling that the two of you were meant to be together, and really are soulmates."

This is the part of the conversation where I whack your tear-filled eyes with a lamppost and tell you that I had a spiritual prophecy to give you a concussion.  For the record, the above conversations are not fiction, they have actually happened in my life.  Yes, I may be combining a few of them for comedic effect, but these nutcases are the ones you’re trying to pawn off to me using your lack of matchmaking skills.   

These types of conversations are also what make me lie straight to your face about being in a serious, committed relationship with a girl that does not exist whatsoever.  Oh yes, I’ve created those ladies before, and I have them stashed away for whenever I feel your prodding relationship questions are going to lead to yet another below-mediocre blind date.  Either that or I just tell you I’m gay.  One way or another, I avoid at all costs your last-ditch, hail-Mary efforts to save my soul from a life of miserable celibacy, because I’d much rather be happy by myself, than be depressed with some project.

So please, shut your yappers about my dating life the next time we catch up.  And don’t try and force-feed me your boss’s, second cousin’s BFF with ADD who just got divorced, and someone who you think I’d be a perfect fit for, and if we’re not engaged by June 1^st you’ll be on your knees every night pleading with the good Lord to not smite my unwed soul with a bolt of lightning.  Because conversations like those are what make me want to shove a nine-iron down your throat. 

Me: “MEDIC! WE’VE GOT A BLEEDER HERE! GET THIS BUMBLING JERK SOME COMMON COURTESY, STAT!”