It's How You Play the Game

Single women in my city are interesting. They are a unique predator, prowling the club scene each weekend, hoping to stalk their way into the heart of any single man who makes dinner reservations at 5-star restaurants, takes private yacht ventures to tropical escapes, buys Gucci purses, and spends weekends in Venice. These women track their prey in skin-tight dresses and thong bikinis, surgically enhance their assets, wear stilettos with shorts, and have legs for days (perfectly sculpted by their own personal trainer, naturally).

These women, of course, are my competition.  In the dirty game that we call Dating, there are rules, but no referees to call the shots.  There are sidelines, but no coaches to bench you.  There are sides, but no teams.  It's every woman for herself.  And let me tell you — it can get ugly on that field.

In my post-divorce experience, the game gets even more competitive for those of us joining the players on the field after we assumed we had left the game for good.  I've realized that the number of single men who do not think of a 30+ woman as an extra piece of unwanted baggage drops considerably once you add on that said woman is divorced.

I see these game-players out on the town, and I think, how can I possibly compete?  In addition to being divorced, I suffer in comparison.  I prefer flip-flops to heels—certainly when paired with shorts.  I have never surgically enhanced anything—nor will I ever.  I don't even want a personal trainer—assuming I could afford it.  And I will absolutely, 100%, without a doubt, never be caught in a thong bikini—major cringe.

It makes me wonder why us women stab each other in the back just to be involved in a game that so many of us dread to play and classify as unenjoyable.  Why do we battle each other relentlessly just to find that special someone?  Why do we put ourselves through endless suffering just to experience something that only could be love?  The ultimate question is...if a woman decides to play the game by her own set of rules, is it still possible to win?

When I went on that fishing trip a little while back with Rowdy and her family, my dear friend's request for me to accompany her was only partially motivated by wanting me to spend time getting to know CB.  Her biggest reason for inviting me along was due to the fact that CB had invited his friend named Sketch, who then had invited his current female plaything, who in turn had invited her BFF.  Let's name these two women Paris and Kim, respectively.  After meeting them at the bar the night before, Rowdy had begged me:  "Do not make me go fishing with these two bimbos all day without you....  I will seriously throw myself off the boat if I have to listen to their nonsense all day... if I don't throw one of them overboard first!"

Now, let's be honest—Rowdy has been known to have a low tolerance for girly nonsense—but in this situation, not one person who has met these two women could have possibly said she was overreacting.

We all meet up at the dock early that morning to board the fishing boat.  Sketch and Paris arrive together and are slightly late; as to why, we don't ask, but they are looking at bit worn from the night before.  Kim has picked up CB from Rowdy's house and followed us to the dock in her car — there is no doubt that she has tagged her catch clearly.  And who can blame her?  CB is available, attractive, and accomplished.  X marks the spot.

Of course, once Kim gets out of the car and begins strutting over to the boat, I have to do a double-take when I see her.  I turn to Rowdy to raise an eyebrow at her, nodding in Kim and CB's direction.

Rowdy can't even fake discretion.  "Wait, are you serious?  Is she wearing heels on a fishing boat?" she snorts incredulously.

Now, for those of you who have never been on a deep-sea fishing boat, this ain't no cruise ship.  We are not going to be gently bobbing along in the Bay.  Even more so, it happens to be the day after a tropical storm has swept through, so the water is absolutely not going to be glassy and calm.

I'm still trying not to join Rowdy in her obvious snickering as she continues: "This chick will be lucky if she stays standing, regardless of whether or not I'm able to push her off the boat!"

I promise—we are not usually this mean-spirited.  But seriously—the combination of her string bikini, designer sunglasses, spiked heels, and shameless flirting with CB are really too much...

Too bad Kim and her stilettos end up getting seasick within 15 minutes away from the dock and she spends the rest of the day puking over the side of the boat and sleeping it off in the cabin.  Really—such a shame.

I was only able to have a conversation with CB that day because luck (or a lack of reliance on Dramamine) intervened for me.  It certainly wasn't because I bit and clawed my way to the front of the race.  I didn't do anything to sabotage another competitor, I didn't fight dirty, and I certainly didn't glam myself up.  But was I really a winner of that game?

If seasickness is meant to signify that we don't all have to play games to end up on in the winner's circle, then there may still be a gold medal for those of us who choose to wear sweatpants to Target.  Possibly, for the women who decide to play fair and honest, true to themselves and not the image they believe a man wants, losing out on a date is not really a genuine game loss.  Or maybe, it's not whether you win or lose—

Maybe it's how you play the game that matters.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée