$ingle Lady #3: What kind of vegetable are you?

It is with disappointment that I report that an e-harmony membership is not in the cards. Yet another unfortunate byproduct of being newly single (and thus in a new, big girl apartment) is that rent tends to quadruple, and if given the choice between my regular dinner size portion of frosted mini-wheats and a one hundred and twenty dollar membership to e-harmony I will choose dinner every time. I love mini-wheats.

With this in mind, the topics of my posts will, in turn, be relegated to social interaction of the face to face kind, or some variant thereof. In college, my friends and spent many an hour playing one of our favorite games “What kind of vegetable are they?” – it was the genius offspring of yet another of our favorite games “1-2-3-Chug” (which consisted of little more than locking ourselves in a closet with a keg and (shocker) saying 1-2-3-Chug). Inevitably, if you spend enough…or too much…. time with people (perhaps locked in a closet with beer?), it begins to make total sense to say that so and so is, without a doubt, a potato, while that guy over there, he is definitely a carrot. I challenge you – don’t knock it till you try it – you will soon see your own group of friends as a well-rounded representation of the produce section at your local grocery. Likewise, you are blessed if you find yourself a member of the 64-count box of Crayola crayons. Rather than beginning with vegetables, try colors – it might be easier for the novice to imagine that our friend F could be no other color than charcoal gray – it makes total sense. Obviously we played this game too. It is with dismay that I didn’t remember these all too revealing questions while free harmony was an option. Most certainly, the questions to all potential mates would have followed: What vegetable would your friends describe you as? (Which is, note, a drastically different question than if you could be any vegetable what would you be?) What color would people say you are? And lastly, but most importantly, do you have a 64-box of crayons or the 99 cent 8-box variety?

What brought me to these magical memories today? Yet another epiphany. I know - I’m full of them. But I have honestly been struggling with the nice guy dilemma. It is truly troubling to a female to think that she may not like nice boys. Makes you feel like a bad person, yaddi yaddi yada. Today, however, I had a blinding moment of self-revelation. One point scored for me. It is not the relative niceness of these men that is so troubling – it is the overflowing cup of joy and jubilation that surrounds some of you. Happiness. Yuck. So much happiness it makes me throw up a little in my mouth. If you were a shape, Mr. Nice Guy, you would be a fluffy cloud. If I had to come up with something off the top of my head, which I am because I don’t think we ever made it to the shape game, I might describe myself as more of an octagon. You, Nice Guy, are pink cotton candy and sweet baby lambs. I merely point out that if ever in a situation where some total whack job gets hit by a car in the middle of the street because she is acting like a drunk dumbass I need you to , with me (after calling the ambulance, of course), empathize about how the aforementioned girl is totally off her rocker, that’s all. I mean, she is – she stood in front of a moving automobile and was in no way trying to harm herself. That is crazy, and we need to be able to talk about it. FYI – this girl does exist and she is fine, I am not so horrible as to speak ill of the dead, only if you are alive. Where will I meet this dream man without e-harmony? I think I’ll start in the produce section.