Or could it be something much more basic than that? Once upon a time—well, a year and a half ago—I had a boyfriend in San Francisco. Joe was 41, 6 feet tall, bearded, a creative director in advertising, given to wearing plaid and Kangol hats, and he lived in an art-filled apartment overlooking Dolores Park. I let myself in. A black notebook lay in the center of his kitchen table. I knew it was his journal. Shamelessly, I opened it. I kissed Lauren, and I have another date with Julie.
I broke up with him that night. I looked for solace. I Googled. Very nice story, surfergirl77 had written on a message board about my ironically timed magazine piece. Over the next year of informal sociological research, I realized I was the last local single woman to get this memo.
It all amounted to a particular flavor of romance: one I was souring on. But unless I was willing to up and move, what was I supposed to do about it?
Then one day it came to me—the obvious, that is. SF singles are trapped in this loneliness together. The women approach men as enemy combatants, and then wonder why they cower. We needed a cease-fire, and someone had to lay down arms first. Why not me? Instead of waiting for that next email from a stranger, now I opened up to smiling in line at the burrito shop and striking up conversations at the BART station.
Getting off-line pushed me toward new ways of real-world meeting. Tango dancing. Playing pool. Singing in a piano bar. I also began treating men the way I wanted to be treated, as a human being, not as a romantic target.
