Time Out, New York!
(Or Why I’ll Be Single Indefinitely)
By Sara Katherine Runnels
I was completely sober when I agreed to be in Time Out New York’s recent Singles Issue. My friend who works at the magazine mentioned they were in need of unabashed, ready-to-mingle spinsters who were willing to put themselves in a collective advertisement for the Single Population of New York. And rarely would I ever turn down an opportunity to have a “professional” photoshoot and tons of strangers filling my inbox with sordid, grammatically butchered reasons for being my next boyfriend. I have a tendency to make decisions based solely on how great the story might be after it’s over, and this social experiment seemed like the perfect addition to my collection of absurdly amazing adventures.
To be honest, I didn’t do it just for the entertainment value or to have my mug all over the city – I did it knowing perfectly well that beyond the initial weirdos and psychopaths, there might actually be a decent gentleman out there who I hadn’t already spilled a drink on or had a disastrous date with or dismissed based on their excessive use of emoticons. It wasn’t likely, but as a part-time hopeless romantic, I had faith in the odds.
It’s hard to say how long I’ve been single, but if I had to take a guess, I’d say it’s been about 3 years, 9 months and 17 days – basically, the entire amount of time I’ve lived in New York. It’s a reality I’ve embraced because this city makes it incredibly easy – there’s so much to enjoy and discover and experience on your own. But it was with the New Year and my lame resolutions that I realized Manhattan couldn’t be my boyfriend forever. Being in this issue was a leap into the unknown and a great chance to let the city know I was open for business. And I mean that in the least sexual way possible.
To begin the process, I received a few questions from the editor via email to answer about myself – Why am I a great catch? What kind of person am I looking for?, etc. I was instructed to “be funny, casual and specific” in my responses, which, to me, meant being as cute and as obnoxious as possible. I described myself as “a smart and sassy Southerner living in a real-life romantic comedy – one with significantly more comedy than romance. I’m a great spooner, I’ll play beer pong in heels, I’m constantly in a New York state of mind, and I never miss an opportunity to say, ‘that’s what she said’” – answers sure to capture the hearts of New York’s finest gentlemen.
Shortly after I submitted my survey, I was asked to come into the magazine’s offices for a photoshoot. I expected this part of the process to be a breeze, mostly because I have mastered the art of posing for pictures. Sure, most of those pictures are staged at 2AM at some random bar with one hand on my hip and one hand clutching a beer, but I still knew what I was doing. (We were allowed to bring props, but I thought a beer might be a little suggestive.) My posing experience, however, did not matter to the photographer who insisted I do ridiculous things like playfully fondle my necklace or put my arms behind my head or rest my hand awkwardly on my chin like some 1994 Glamour Shots shit. I did as he requested because I understood the need for variety, but I begged him to tell whoever was in charge that the one where I’m standing like a pageant contestant would be just fine.
From then on, I lived in fear of February 4th – the day the issue hit stands. I couldn’t sleep at night wondering if for the rest of my life I’d be online and in print with one eye half-open or with my arm caught uncomfortably in my necklace or – heaven forbid – my hands somewhere else than my hips. I also worried about having my pride shattered to pieces with an empty inbox. My friend at the magazine said she’s heard of people in past singles issues only receiving emails from 19-year-olds in Florida or absolutely no responses at all. I wondered if anyone else in the world had bigger problems than these.
A few weeks went by and my profile finally debuted online, and several days later, in print. The picture was acceptable (half pageant contestant, half awkward 3/4 turn, all eyes open), my new Time Out email address was set up, and I was ready for the opening scene of my romantic comedy to begin.
I knew some of my friends would immediately take this opportunity to entertain themselves, and so within the first few hours, I received emails like this:
Hi, I saw your ad in Time Out and I would like to marry you. How much?
And also: I enjoy listening to Lady Gaga and crushing beer cans against my skull. I have needs, but not many – mostly I just need someone to bathe me. I enjoy spooning and cuddling, but not snuggling, which I find disgusting. I also like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain.
My friend Michael even took the time to make up an email address and wrote to me saying: This knight in shining armor would love to rescue you, my queen. And attached a picture of an obese man dressed in a knight’s costume.
Then the real fun began.
First, there were the emails with grammatical issues so cringe-worthy that even text messages from a 14-year-old girl would be more coherent.
Chad, 21, wrote: i am type always there for u and never ever be fake or cheat on u and type open ur door for u and pull ur chair out for u and type can stay in and watch tv with or take u out on the town
The best way to end a poetic, punctuation-less email like that is probably giving me the link to your MySpace page, which Chad so kindly did.
Then there was Nitzan:
I saw your profile on TONY, and was wondering if you will entertain me as my partner in crime..I was wondering what’s the most creative date u ever had - a ping-pong game, a hair salon date, a hidden place in central park?.. or u just want me to surprise you, and that’s all?
Sir, I want none of your surprises. Especially if you’re taking me to a hidden place in the park where no one can hear me scream.
The Most Interesting Email Address Award went to Gonna Get Got Yo at yahoo dot com, a white rapper who not only sent the creepiest of all creepy pictures, but tried to entice me with 5 reasons we should date – one of them being:
My children’s book about a giant doughnut that falls down to the Earth from outer space and rolls through Brooklyn into the East River, as it drags every walk of life into the gooey depths of its frosting, will make us both millionaires.
I hope I don’t regret passing that one up.
One gentleman signed his email with, May I Always Live To Serve You and Your Crown, leading me to believe he thought I was the Son of God. I hope Jesus isn’t pissed.
Then there was Tom who initially seemed like a winner. Part of his email read:
Hey, I was reading through your Time Out ad, and you seemed really cool, but I noticed that you like the beer pong and Central Park. The problem is that I like flip cup and Union Square, and people who like what I like and like what you like have never gotten along. It’s a feud as old as time itself.
His wit was intriguing, but I immediately noticed his wedding band in the picture he attached. I decided to email him anyway, solely to question his man jewelry, and he wrote back explaining it was his high school ring he just happened to wear on his wedding finger. So you’re a thirtysomething who still thinks he’s captain of the football team? Thanks for playing, Tom.
Then we had sweet, sweet Kingsley who wrote to me and said: I am interested in meeting folks who are interested in contributing to the positive progression of humanity.
I’m not sure what part of “I play beer pong in heels” made him think I contribute to the progression of humanity in any way, but I appreciate his thoughtful assumption.
Throughout the week, there were a plethora of men who sent semi-appealing responses, but attached pictures that were beyond disturbing. Several were clearly photoshopped, most were exceptionally small and distorted (I couldn’t even tell if the person had eyeballs), and many looked as if they were snapped in the basement of a dirty Chinese take-out restaurant. Why don’t people have at least one good photo of themselves?
One gentleman signed his email: Daniel P. “super man”. Inside joke.
It’s not an inside joke, Daniel, if you’re the only one on the inside.
And I can’t forget Bruce.
Hi Sara you do have a great smile & rock those stripes shirts! I’m Bruce. I’m a man with a lot of energy & love going to live concerts & dancing up a storm.I like to go sailing & jump into the deep blue sea. I’m full of adventure & you seem like a girl that can appreciate that! My name is Bruce.
Wait, what was your name again?
If it wasn’t obvious that most of these men had a charming way with words, more of their compelling prose and selling points included:
I liked reading your description thingy.
I know lots of random animal facts.
I absolutely love this city and country isn’t bad either.
I’ve attached a drunken photo of myself holding a pumpkin with a penis drawn on it. I hope that is to your liking.
I love to talk about anything and everything.
That’s too much talking, dude.
A week went by and I received about 45 emails, all of which continued to trump the ridiculousness of the ones before it. I knew I’d be bombarded with a few men who didn’t pass 8th grade English or who had part-time jobs as creeps, but I didn’t think my entire inbox would be 100% undateable.
Let me justify all my mockery by saying I appreciate that these men had the gall to email me in the first place. They were all, for the most part, exceptionally sincere, and I wholeheartedly respect that. I really do. Of course it’s possible I was being too picky, but I felt completely entitled to that – there’s no need to settle for a stranger who doesn’t make me laugh or who looks like he just buried his latest victim.
The final contestant in Sara Will Be Single Forever was Mike. Mike used more smiley faces than I cared to count and his interests included (but were not limited to): feeling the power of really dealing with sensual, unpredictable reality, lifting weights and his ancient black cat. He concluded his love letter by saying, I look forward to hearing from you if you are so inclined Uber-Cutey.
Uber-cutey!? Jesus Christ. And that wasn’t even the end of it. His picture was the most incredible, curious, ridiculous thing I’ve seen in quite some time – the icing on my hot mess cake of suitors. In this photograph, Mike is wearing a striped top hat and a cut-off Puma t-shirt, flashing unusually large biceps. He is holding an opened plaid umbrella over his shoulder, a miniature American flag and carrying a dead rose and a wristwatch in his mouth. I promise you my description does not do it justice.
The reality is, every day for the past three weeks, my inbox has been filled with confirmation of what I already knew: that New York men are the reason I’m still single. And maybe they always will be.
But hey, at least I had my picture in a magazine.
