“It’s not where you are today that counts. It’s where you are headed.” – Arthur F. Lenehan
True, but it’s also important to know how you got here, so you know what to avoid. For example, if you’re on a bit of a sexual blue funk, that next martini is likely to get you closer to doing something regrettable. Make sure nobody sees you. Let’s hope your slump-buster has enough common sense to not tag you in a picture from the hotel.
If where you are today is curbside with your luggage because you’ve been booted (a la Lindsay from The Bachelor), you definitely should heed the advice and have convenient amnesia. Don’t play the silly woe-is-me game like Lindsay did.
“I don’t want to be left all alone. I want to grow old with someone.”
Really? That’s what you’re afraid of? Let’s see–you’re tiny, smart, gorgeous, funny, and twenty-fucking-four. Millions of men watched you be cute while ole hairless chest hopped from hole to hole like a handsome blond bunny. You enjoyed two months of significant TV exposure. Suffice it to say that you’ll have a few (thousand) more opportunities than the average gal.
It’s not important that you are posted up solo on a curb. It’s where you are headed, which means a virtual jungle of hungry wolves you’re going to have the displeasure of weeding from your luscious garden. Think of the average female fan, sitting in the tell-all audience. You know the options she has? The guy who’s in town for a conference, who insists he’s single and rich. The ex-boyfriend who keeps showing up drunk on her doorstep. The guy from work who looks at her that way, although he’s thirty years her senior. The man she just had to meet, according to her friend. He was quite a treat considering he lived with his parents, had enough nose hair to weave an afghan, and suggested they split the tab.
No, Lindsay won’t need to worry about dating the average ding-dong. She’ll not need to dim the lights, hold her nose, dress him in black, attend beer softball games, camp out at NASCAR races, or bear any of the typical nonsense suffered by low-exposure women. Not Lindsay. She has probably been solicited by Kobe and dozens of other celebrities–both married and single–since the public dumping. Not only will she avoid loneliness, she’ll crave serenity.
Ladies, don’t be sad when that seat next to you is vacant. That’s a good thing. Vacancy equals opportunity. That extra seat, while waiting to host the firm buns of Mr. Next, can be re-purposed for storing purses, shoes, and fine bottles of wine not wasted on an unappreciative, hairy man-monkey. You may also store containers of dark chocolate nonpareils, plates of warm brie with garlic pita chips, and buckets of truffle popcorn. In extreme cases, you can teach a pooch to sit there (quietly, please).
So, wipe your eyes, blow your nose, look straight into the camera and say, “Fuck him, if he doesn’t appreciate the fineness of my fabulous fruit. Thank you, Chris Harrison. Now, let the penis parade begin.”
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