Maybe I’m the Real-Life Red Green

My friend Mike is still here. He is counseling me on being an online chick magnet, although I have not asked for help. I am getting more and more comfortable with the idea of accepting permanent bachelorhood. Either that, or I can wait till my body gives out and I require medical care, and then maybe I can date a nurse.

Single life is very good. As a bachelor, I will never have to buy someone else a new car even though I buy used. I will never have to be lectured about eating prime beef or anything else. There will be no arguments about recycling. I turned my dining room into an indoor workshop and gun room, and it can stay that way. I can drive however I like. I won’t have to listen to Celine Dion or any type of bad music. I will never, ever have to tolerate the presence of a cat in my house. I am the undisputed emperor of the TV remote. I don’t even have to go to the doctor. I can actually choose to die instead of getting old and wearing diapers. It’s pretty sweet.

As for doing without sex, well, most married men say they’re unsatisfied, too. In 2021, satisfying sex lives are generally things single women provide temporarily as marketing tools. When the ring goes on, the supply tapers off, as planned by one party prior to the wedding. At least I get to do without sex all by myself instead of doing without sex while lying next to someone who refuses to provide it.

Many wives push men away sexually, expecting them to remain faithful and caught up in the relationship. They don’t realize a man who is rejected sexually knows he has been rejected, period. He knows he has a parasite.

When a man marries young, he gets a springy, attractive girl who is anxious to lavish him with physical affection at least until she gets pregnant. When you marry at my age, you get something totally different, and you may also get three or four surly teenage kids who post Tiktok videos making fun of you and think you’re going to put them through college.

I’m starting to think I’ve become impossible to pair up. I’m like a convict who has been in prison so long he prefers it to freedom, except in my case, freedom is what I’m expected to give up.

“Let’s go to Paris!” “Can’t we stay here and weld up bases for my grinder collection?” “Let’s buy a new Cayenne!” “But the Dodge Cummins is only 12 years old!” “Let’s put on uncomfortable clothes and go to a cocktail party with vapid people I want to impress!” “How about if I just drive to the nearest railroad track and lie down?”

Women always want to do insane things that would disrupt a life like mine. Cruises. Dinner parties. Buying real furniture. Not shooting squirrels out the bedroom window.

It’s very disturbing to listen to Mike talk about his strategies. I know what he’s saying is true, but it’s like talking about what they put in sausage. He sounds like he’s humoring mental patients. “Suzy started cutting herself when we gave her 4 fish sticks, so we cut them in half and said there were 8.”

By the way, chorizos are made from hog salivary glands. When you eat chorizos, it’s not just your mouth watering. It’s theirs. Mmm.

It’s always disconcerting to hear how women view men and what their odd demands are. I already know these things. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. It’s still a bummer.

Mike says I need to go to dating sites and put up photos of me in suits and jackets. Oh, man.

Mike himself has bowed to pressure and posted suit photos. I don’t know if it’s a smart move. He may be drawing the wrong women.

Back before I abandoned my brief fling with online dating, I saw a lot of women’s photos. For the most part, they seemed to be dressed the way women usually dress, and they were doing normal things like sitting in restaurants or posing with their families. Some of the women were wearing things like jeans and T-shirts. Mike says men are not allowed to use photos like that. You have to wear the most expensive clothes you have, and you should try to look like you have a great credit rating.

If Mike is right, so was Freud, but let’s not go there. I think Freud has embarrassed a lot of people by pointing out the obvious.

When I put up my photos, I had exactly one to choose from, because mentally healthy men don’t take selfies. It was a picture of me with my goddaughter on my lap. I was wearing a Carhartt shirt. In order to provide variety and give women a fair and realistic view of me from the knees up, I installed a voice-activated photo app on my phone, and I took a picture of me standing in my yard in my usual getup: Carhartt jeans, a T-shirt, and work suspenders.

The photo proved I was not crippled or obese. It showed I was not a midget. It gave women a fair idea what I looked like so they couldn’t claim I tricked them. Job done.

I gave women a little credit. I thought, “Any intelligent creature will realize I can change my clothes for different situations.”

I am not sure why I took that attitude. I know better. Women tend to be drawn to possessions. Many women are physically attracted to men who drive expensive cars, and I have personally had a Swedish au pair I didn’t even know throw herself at me because I was standing on my dad’s yacht. We were at a fuel dock loading up on diesel for a trip, and she announced she wanted to go with us.

If you think the Swedes have a problem, it’s not your imagination. Sweden has the title of Europe’s STD capital.

Still, when I looked at women on Christian Mingle, that was how I saw things. I was well aware they could change their outfits. It never occurred to me to judge them by their clothing unless they looked like bag ladies. I projected my attitude onto women, thinking they had the same healthy outlook.

I am not impressed by women who always look perfect. Women who are too meticulous about their appearance are annoying. They take 90 minutes to get ready to go to McDonald’s. They destroy bathrooms. They think nothing of spending $15,000 per year on clothing which will be out of style in 12 months. They can’t do anything because they’re always terrified of getting things on their clothes, messing up their hair, and breaking nails. They can only walk on pavement and floors because of their shoes. They’re like beautiful couches that are always covered in plastic.

Women like that claim men should be grateful because they do it for men. Not true. They dress to make other women feel bad. They know perfectly well that men don’t care much about the way they dress.

When I was in law school and during the years that ensued, I put together a business wardrobe. I learned a lot about classic men’s clothing. I even bought Alan Flusser’s books. I am not one of those guys who need women to shop for them. In fact, most women have less knowledge and inferior taste. The only reason for me to take a woman to a store would be to have her watch me try things on and give me input on the fit.

All of my business shirts are bespoke. Not altered to fit. Bespoke. I don’t have to wear bespoke jackets and suits because altering off-the-rack jobs works well for me, but I have some bespoke stuff anyway. I designed my own bespoke tux with a special dark-black fabric that doesn’t turn green in flash pictures. My measurements are on file at Zegna and Ascot Chang. I have been to Turnbull & Asser and Paul Stuart. I used to buy bespoke shirts from Sulka, before it went out of business. I don’t have many ties that cost less than a hundred dollars.

I have Swiss watches. Women like them, and the wrong kind of woman can spot them from across a football field. They keep bad time, they bang into things, and they never fit right. I don’t wear them. A Rolex is no substitute for a cell phone or even a $20 digital.

Should I put this junk on just to attract women who judge men based on what they wear? The question is moot because I quit trying, but it’s depressing that we live in a world where it ever came up.

I didn’t spend thousands and thousands on clothing so I could look good to women. I did it in order to make other lawyers look bad, in hopes of getting an edge. It was a cold, conscious choice that had nothing to do with vanity.

I always say men’s faults are obvious. They’re obvious because people never stop yapping about them. Men lie to get sex, they commit adultery more than women, some of them beat their wives, and many men insist on living like spoiled single men after they’re married. That pretty much covers the important male faults, and everyone acknowledges them. Women’s faults are different. We’re not allowed to talk about them because it’s sexist. We pretend they don’t exist, and as a result, too many American women suffer from a persecuted-princess delusion. The woman is the prize; the man is the unworthy recipient who can never earn her and who must be subjected to a continuing series of tiresome tests throughout the relationship. Also, the man is responsible for all problems encountered during the marriage, including earthquakes and ugly kids who look just like the wife.

Maybe this is why the price of a man’s shoes matters.

I’ve heard women talk about their ideal men. If you’re a man, you do not want to hear such conversations. I’ve never heard them talk about things like religious compatibility, character, intelligence, wit, talent, dependability, useful skills, affection, or kindness. I have heard them talk about other things, most of which were pretty stupid. He has to have a cool last name. He has to be over 6 feet tall. He should be white. He should be a German. His eyes should be green, but not too green. The ring has to cost at least $20,000.

It’s so weird. Many women make lists of required options, like they’re ordering cars. Men don’t do that. We have very general criteria. You have to look okay. You have to not be a giant pain that makes me wish I were single or dead. You have to not bankrupt me. You can’t have incurable VD that will kill me or make me sterile. You can’t embarrass me every time we leave the house. Women’s lists turn into barriers that prevent marriage and benefit herds of future cats.

Bridezillas aren’t created by the process of planning weddings. The planning process merely reveals an existing disorder. Wacky lists are symptoms of the illness.

I am not comfortable with thinking of women as fish, and clothing and possessions as bait. If a woman wants the bait, she probably has little interest in the man himself. I completely understand why a woman would want a man to be financially comfortable and to dress reasonably well when needed, but it seems to me a woman who knows a man is an attorney with no debt and his own big house ought to be smart enough to realize he can put on a jacket when takes her out.

Not that there is any place to take a woman around here. I never thought about that until recently. There are some good restaurants here, but I don’t think I’ll be going to Nobu again any time soon. They will never build one here.

There are sane women out there, but they are vastly outnumbered by the others. I think putting out crazy-woman bait is a bad move. Maybe my Carhartt jeans photo was actually a useful, even vital, filter.

Anyway, I am not planning to go back to online dating, so it doesn’t matter. The more I write about single life versus my 20 days of online dating, the more grateful I am for what I have.