I hate bowling. Not because it isn’t entertaining to moonwalk across the floor in glamorous bowling shoes when striking or cause semi-permanent damage to the wrist only to see a set of pins get knocked over by an overweight ball, but because bowling reminds me that like a stubborn pin, I stand alone. While staring down lanes, the array of bright neon lights pierce my eyes and I begin to feel like a drug-induced hippie holding hands and skipping with squirrels in euphoria. My new-found high coupled with deafening music and exciting shrieks from bowlers on first or group dates creep into my thoughts and I see a picture of myself. Though quite faint, every pin morphs into an image of me in an intricate white wedding gown and veil, poised with bouquet in hand, waiting to finally be knocked over.

Amongst a set of five girlfriends, I am the furthest from marriage. One’s been committed to her boy toy for several years, another is deeply passionate about her live-in beau, a third is happily roaming the streets with her new fashion accessory—the boyfriend arm piece, and the final fourth has been steadily dating her man candy for months. Then, like the unlucky child in elementary school who is the last pick at kickball, there is me; poor little not-so-rich girl, alienated in a boring new city filled with loads of unpromising opportunities when it comes to men and dating.

Funny how when I frequented Atlanta during spur of the moment vacations, there was an abundance of men. I turned a corner and another beautiful body stood before me. As I passed, elaborate sexual explorations with the sexy streetwalkers crept into mind...they had to be draped in Axe body spray.  So why is it that now that I am actually a resident of this highly-trafficked, southern-hospitality-my-ass city are those very same roads barren? Rather than being approached by well-educated, semi-sophisticated, clean-cut men, I am being approached by 18-year old children with sun shades, platinum teeth, sagging pants and joints inside of dark 21 and older nightclubs.
 
Upon my last glance into the mirror, I reassured myself that I share no resemblance to Quasimodo. I am definitely someone who need not seek pleasure from a series of pornography DVDs or have intimate dinners-for-one on Friday nights. Beauty isn’t the issue. I graduated from college, am not drowning in debt and have no kids or diseases. Independence isn’t the issue; neither is my sparkling personality or brilliant sense of humor. A few years back, I actually came to the conclusion that geography was to blame for the lack of quality; that Miami just didn’t produce marriage material. I was wrong. It isn’t geography at all. It’s the Y chromosome; it’s just MEN.

The vicious cycle repeats. The epidemic has spread nationwide with no immediate cure. Once upon a time I thought the problem lay within me. I’m sure many women have taken hits to their self-esteem after biting into a rotten apple or two. Allow me to reassure you that it isn’t us, ladies. It’s the sperm; one poisonous tadpole mating only to produce an offspring of rotted muck and the incurable poisonous gene passes on from generation to generation.    

At 20, I solemnly swore that 25 was it; the age that I would walk down the aisle, eyes steadily fastened on me in my white dress inside of a breathtaking cathedral, feeding off the fact that all of my bride’s maids are envious, hating that I married before them. Many of us are utterly anxious to marry Prince Charming so that he may whisk us off on his blazing black stallion. At this point, screw the thought of marrying him; simply meeting him would suffice.

With five uncommitted months left before 25, I can walk down an aisle but merely for my own amusement because I don’t hear wedding bells ringing anytime soon. While it isn’t necessarily healthy to seek solace from a man and/or relationship and it’s more therapeutic to be happy with self, with or without penis, no woman wants to be alone and as she ages, it becomes more apparent. Turning over in bed at 3 A.M. only to find Patches, your stuffed teddy bear glaring back at you with his stupid, giant smile gets old…fast.   

As I approach the age, my biggest short-term fear is actually becoming that lonely bowling pin, dolled in a lavish gown surrounded by bright lights and happy hippies, never to be knocked down—or up for that matter. Then again, maybe the right guy with all the right moves will step into my lane and make me fall to my knees at one fell swoop. The question is: when will he feel like bowling?