Originally published in September 2019
There are no fortune tellers. There are dating coaches and advice columns and best practices stretching out like so many alley cats before us. But nobody can just come out and say it: Here’s where to meet your husband. It’s the impossible question, as likely to have an answer as our perplexities regarding the afterlife. Nobody can tell me the one thing I actually want to know. We can’t cut to the chase—the chase cuts us.
Of course I’ve tried it all. I’m a human being with shreds of hope remaining like the bottom of a bag of Mild Wisconsin Cheddar. You can’t truly bemoan a situation until you’ve tried at least 93 remedies unsuccessfully, you don’t want to run out of good material.
So I’ve employed every app, idea, and deflating suggestion tossed out at random by people at happy hours thinking that by sputtering forth an action plan they’ve never seen work in real life they’ve done their part in “helping out” a single woman. I’ve entertained a veritable subscription box of meet-someone methods and much like all other millennial-marketed products, the packaging outshined the contents. It never mattered what I did or how I approached a situation, the situation always had a good laugh at my expense. I had many glasses of terrible wine on unfortunate dates at my expense, as well.
No one can tell me where to find what I’m looking for. The one thing I want to know is the most illusive piece of information of all, disappearing like smoke from a lifted cloche.
Left solutionless, frustrated, and quite frankly too tired to pour further energy down this particular drain, I’ve decided instead to list out all the places and scenarios where I’d ideally meet my next partner. History is nothing if not an enthusiastic teacher, so cognitively I understand that I’ll likely meet my husband in a location renowned for its murder rate and recognizable by olfactory assault, but let’s play pretend awhile, shall we?
Paris. Obviously. Why ever not? An existence entirely void of romance will naturally gravitate toward the most conventionally romantic locale when gathering fantasy scenarios for one’s own amusement. I actually don’t find Paris romantic, but I do find it delicious and curious and inspiring. The idea of a man sitting next to me on a bench at Place des Vosges and not being terrifyingly creepy is a mental treat. I imagine he is also a tourist, taking in the sites and tastes of one of the world’s great cities before returning home to London on the 7pm train. I’d relocate to his charming Brixton flat within the year.
The Farmer’s Market. I’ve yet to see a man in my age bracket at the farmer’s market who isn’t leashed to a partner fervently reviewing the beets, but a girl can fantasize in text on the internet. “What are you going to make with those leeks?” The conversation practically starts itself. I’d prefer if he had a dog but it’s not a requirement. His backpack contains the book he’ll read for awhile in the park after purchasing the root vegetables he’ll incorporate into tonight’s stew and an apple for breakfast.
On An Airplane. I blame the movies or my own poisoned head, but I always, always retain hope that one of these flights, I’m going to sit next to someone I have the potential to fall in love with. I travel roughly three times per year and have since age 25 or so, and if my math is right, that’s a bare minimum of 72 flights not accounting for layovers where I’ve had the opportunity to sit next to my husband but have instead only been seated next to wildly boring travel flotsam at best, and small children at worst. I’m going to New Orleans this November and will report back.
Word of Mouth. I’ve always fancied myself personable, capable of carrying on sparkling conversation and retaining meaningful friendships. I think it would be nice if a relationship in my life netted me a husband and I’ll just come out and admit it. Wouldn’t it be lovely if one of the literally hundreds of people I know acted as a scout? Let’s say they came across someone and the first thought in their head was, “wow, you need to meet Shani.” And suddenly, cashing in on years and years of effort deposited into all of my relationships, one of them paid out in spectacular fashion. I really don’t care which one, you’re all welcome to participate.
On Halloween. I imagine it would be a lovely life indeed if, right from the start, my future partner and I were able to share a deep love of the holiday. And if not, at least he’d go into things with a firm grasp of its importance in my life and fully understand that the box of fake skeleton parts in the closet will not be included in the garage sale, this year or any other.
At The Movies. An interesting choice, perhaps. But I love to go to the movies, specifically movies that have been out awhile and are playing in the afternoon to predominantly empty theaters. The cinema has become an absurdly priced endeavor but a row almost entirely to myself is worth every penny. I imagine he’d be one row back, fully supporting my standard Alamo Drafthouse order which is a glass of wine, french fries, and some sort of aioli. I’d overhear his order to the server as well, a locally brewed beer of some repute paired with chips and queso. I’d look back and nod in approval of his bowl of melted cheese. He’d strike up a conversation as we left the theater. We’d chat in the bar downstairs until dawn.
It would be easy to say I’m not asking for much. I don’t expect to meet my husband as we both wait for our names to be engraved on our Golden Globes, nothing like that. But even relatively simple requests in this vein are asking for everything. The convergence of two people in a time and place conducive to connection—what are the odds? When I think back on my years of not meeting someone and how often not meeting someone happens, it’s a wonder people pair up at all, it really is.
I won’t begin to insult the universe by saying I have any idea how I’ll meet my partner, I truly don’t. And there’s a real delight in looking forward to what’s in store for me. In the meantime, I’ll just hope it happens when there’s a chill in the air, stars in the sky, and sanity enough left to enjoy it.