Young American men have a tendency to travel in packs of two or more to the local night club, pub or festival which is well suited to share fellowship or a meal or watch the big game between male friends, but not so good for meeting a true love prospect. In fact many young single men will approach a night out with the boys with the secret, wild anticipation of; I need somebody to love, and tonight is the night that I could meet her. This accounts for the fifteen minutes of meticulous primping and speakers blaring Right Said Fred’s, “I’m too sexy for my shirt”, twice in the background. As the final pat of cologne dries on both cheeks he gives one last glance of approval in the bathroom mirror and envisions the end of a successful hunt, as a self satisfying spectacle, when the smoking blonde hottie on his left arm pauses at the main entrance to kiss him as they exit the club to his mates’ blusterous cheers of approval. Almost all men can relate to the building of expectation as zero hour approaches and a buddy’s car horn sounds signaling that the coachman is here to take Prince Charming to the ball.
By 2:30am the unfortunate events of the evening, like a mighty wind, have blown away all illusions that tonight would be the night which he would meet his Norma Jean. The perfect woman who would publically proclaim her admiration for him and privately fulfill his most ardent sexual fantasies while simultaneously providing just the right doses of trust, acceptance, appreciation, approval and encouragement – without talking too much. As his friend pulls into the all-night diner’s parking lot, he is able to summon one last thought from the bottom of the six overpriced, post-rejection Captain-n-Cokes, “. . . there must be a better way, lord can anybody find me somebody to love”.