Over lunch with Neely today, I did something that shocked the shit out of me, and that was even after trying a bite of the Cantina’s slaw based on Neely’s statement that it was spicy (mayonnaise, my mortal enemy, you may have won this battle, but the war rages on). Did I really tell Neely that, like myself, she has set her standards too high, and that what she’s looking for — and likewise, what I’m seeking — doesn’t really exist outside of movies and daydreams?Yeah, maybe so. That came from me, the same guy who has been telling everyone for as long as I can remember not to settle, to never accept anything less than everything that you want. Of course, I also think that Hudson Hawk is a great movie, so I’m not necessarily the person you should ever come to for pearls of wisdom.

I’ve grown accustomed to people around me chanting about the joys of being single. It rivals Scientology, sometimes. In fact, I think I’d rather go toe-to-toe with Tom Cruise on the merits of Zoloft than have another conversation in which I try to convince Garth that relationships are good. Granted, I’m three years out of my last divorce, and it’s been almost a year and a half since I dated anyone for more than a month; these zealots of bachelorhood are mostly awaiting their one-year chip from Bad Endings Anonymous. But even these people are only single in the barest sense: they’re all dating someone, even if they refuse to call it dating. And sorry, but just because you feel the freedom to sleep with someone else on a lark doesn’t make you single; it just makes you a Mormon.

Me, I’ve just lost… something. My sense of aggressiveness, for one. And maybe my understanding of dating — it’s not something I’ve ever really been good at. I like relationships — whether you know each other well or not, whether it’s going to work out in the long run, whether you are going to end up married or with restraining orders, at least you know where you and the interested other stand. But I’ve discovered that women these days (or maybe it’s just the women that I’m attracted to these days) are more traditional, giving someone like Wade the advantage.

I can ponder the design and placement of a tattoo for upwards of a year before I ever act on it, but I dive right into relationships. The road of my love life makes Lindsay Lohan look like a suitable candidate for Conscientious Driver of the Year, while I remain happy with all my ink years and years later. There’s a lesson in here, methinks.

But even if I were granted the gifts of a god for a day and allowed to Weird Science myself the perfect woman, I don’t know that I could. My desires are too defined in some areas, not enough in others, and there are some things that I collapse with option anxiety when I try to figure them out. For instance: when it comes to body type, I don’t really have one specific ideal. I guess I naturally lean towards thin, smaller girls, but there are more than a few Amazonian women out there who are stunning.

I know that I want someone artistic in some way — musical, maybe, or visually oriented. And yeah, the insanity that comes with creative is part of the attraction; also, though, I think I want to know that my significant other maybe understands my insanity, when it’s tied into the creative. I want someone with a good sense of humor, and someone who gets mine — you don’t have to laugh at Dumb and Dumber or The Aristocrats with me, but it helps if you laugh at my jokes (like, until your eyes bleed — my ego needs the boost). I need openmindedness — not just in a tolerance sense, but in a larger perspective, too. I want someone who respects that none of us know certain things, and accepts that. Intelligent conversation, which rules out most far-right conservatives.

But you know, all of these things are somewhat negotiable, too. Melissa hated a lot of the things I find funny (admittedly, not many people laugh at my three most offensive jokes), but we still lasted for almost five years. Openmindness is not something you stumble across in the South — not like grating accents or overemphasis on the importance of college football games — but I’ve let that slide a lot across the years. These are ideals, sure, but not deal breakers.

Honesty and openness — all relationships succeed or fail based on the measure of these two things. Passion — about what, I’m not even sure that I care, but something that makes you feel alive and capable of doing anything. A lack of narcissicism — which is to say, I hope you care about your looks, to a point. But when you’re spending more time at the gym than you are with your friends, or insisting on a makeover before a Saturday afternoon run to the grocery store, you care too much what other people think about how you look.

Oh, the kissing has got to be good, too.

And maybe this is why I think that I’m dreaming: we can all find someone who fits some or most of our qualifications, but we overlook things that should be dealbreakers — we let lies pass, or allow intolerance into our world, or convince ourselves that we’ll learn to live with the less-than-great sex or mean jokes. Worst of all, we allow ourselves to change to fit what the other person wants. And we do these things unconsciously, fearing that this is our last chance at love, that the world of the single guy or girl at whatever increasing age we’re at is a fate worse than settling. I’ve been guilty of it in the past, and who knows? Maybe I’ll still fall into that trap again.
Ideally, though — there’s that word again — not. Single is not my preference, but I’m okay with it. At least, until I meet a thin redhead who loves music and movies and learning about new things; who is eccentric and quirky; can be mature or silly, depending on the moment; and who dreams of sunsets all over Ireland and laughing as the waves roll in beside us.

Anyone? Seriously, let me know. I’ll trade you two cats, a CD shelf, and a framed poster from the 1996 World Cup if you know anyone even closely resembling that person.