He Said

I can pinpoint the moment I lost faith in my fellow single male. It was August 16, 2007, at the Rogers Centre, at about 8 p.m. I was used to being let down at Blue Jays games, but I was ill prepared for this particular spectacle. Fifteen desperate men—and 15 even more desperate women—decided the love of their life could be found at a speed-dating soirée called 25 Dates, 9 Innings. Never mind the inherent awkwardness of watching baseball with a potential girlfriend; between innings, one unlucky couple would be flashed on the JumboTron and gawked at by thousands. At 8 p.m., the screen showed the unfortunate pairing: a petite blonde in a black dress and the boorish lout she was currently enduring. He was as ecstatic as a schoolboy, waving at the camera and eagerly pointing at the lady he had known for the duration of three outs. She was covering her face with her hand and shaking her head in mortification. I sympathized with her—why can’t she meet just one great guy in this city?

The thing is, we’re out there. The great guys see each other every Thursday, Friday, Saturday and sometimes Sunday. We’re the men chatting at the bar with our backs to the crowd, or huddling next to the DJ booth. But tell me, boys: what are the odds of meeting young, single women when we’re busy talking to each other? Miss Right would probably enjoy that anecdote about that crazy night in Thailand—if only we weren’t recounting it to our buddies for the 30th time.

We know where to find Toronto’s hottest parties. Last month, we were checking out the stilettos-and-cocktail set at the Brant House. This week, we’re dropping in on Parkdale’s finest at Wrongbar. We’re pumped, dressed, coiffed and ready to meet someone new. Yet from the moment we pay our $10 covers and have our $6 drinks in hand until way past last call, there’s nothing. We do not meet a single person. This holds true even at nights explicitly for singles, like Santa Cruz. We have amazing nights out with our buddies, but our bachelor apartments are none the cozier for it. And on the cab ride home, it’s all the same excuses. Mix and match at your leisure:
• the music was [too loud / soft / bad / good];
• the bar was too [crowded / empty / hot / cold];
• she was with [too many / not enough / too ugly / too beautiful] friends;
• she looked too busy not being into me;
• all of the above (come on now, really?).

Being single and male in Toronto is inherently, well, Torontonian: tolerant, if not accepting, and way, way too polite. Boys, we can’t avoid the real problem forever: it’s us, not them. Instead of being ourselves, we fret over saying the wrong thing or making the wrong move. Instead of actually making a move, we elect to do nothing. In fact, it’s impossible for her to decide that she’s not that into us if we’ve never even given her the opportunity to shoot us down.

For a city that can lay claim to being one of the most connected on the Web (I’m looking at you, Facebook capital of the world), it’s shocking to see what an isolated bunch we are in real life. We can write long, heartfelt missives on Craigslist’s Missed Connections about the one that got away (because we didn’t say anything), but we can’t muster even a “hello” to the girl having coffee next to us at Jet Fuel.

While smouldering over “what ifs” and “if onlys,” it’s important not to forget about the other factor that’s stymying us: the asshole single guys. You know who I’m talking about. They’re the ones on the JumboTron, the ones you see at Circa gyrating their hips toward whichever girl is unfortunate enough to be on the same dance floor. They’re “that guy”—the imposing losers who get the most severe looks for doing what everyone else is only thinking. It’s awfully tempting to do the same, I know, but it comforts me to know that they are in the minority, and that we would never stoop to unsavoury approaches and pathetic come-ons. But for the sake of single guys across the city, we can’t allow that guy to speak loud and obnoxiously for all of us.

My advice is this: Don’t, Toronto. Please don’t be the JumboTron guy. Don’t tolerate that—we all deserve better. If we insist that 25 Dates, 9 Innings is the humiliating thing we need to jump start our love lives, then we all must ask ourselves one question: Have we really tried everything?

It’s just a simple “hello.”

Hi, my name’s Cliff. Nice to meet you. Gorgeous haircut. Cute boots.