IT'S NOT JUST ABOUT SEX...
Suzanne Schlosberg calls it "the Streak": 1001 days without sex (just 36 days shorter than the Kennedy administration). She's on the mother of all dry spells...a Sahara devoid of intimacy, one-night stands, and committed relationships. The question is, Why? Is she too picky, too bitchy, or too shy? Does she have chlamydia? Really bad foot fungus? No. She's a smart, good-looking freelance writer who, at thirty-four, has inexplicably crossed that dreaded line from single to...still single.
Now, in hilarious detail, Suzanne chronicles the true story of the Streak and her outrageous attempts to end it. She embarks on a nationwide search for the most date-friendly town. She analyzes her Internet dates like an FBI profiler. And when all else fails, she goes global, taking her hunt from the South Pacific to the Arctic tundra. Ultimately she is forced to ask herself: Do I really need a man to find happiness?
For every woman who has endured the indignity of the "singles table" at her friends' weddings, THE CURSE OF THE SINGLES TABLE is a real treat.
Schlosberg (Fitness for Dummies; Weight Training for Dummies; etc.) tackles husband-hunting in this often side-splitting, occasionally poignant memoir. Humiliated by being seated at the dreaded "Singles Table" at weddings and pressured by crossing the "Great Divide" from "single" to "still single," Schlosberg embarks on a quest, not necessarily for "Mr. Right," but at least "Mr. Remote Possibility." She tries a jaunt to a Kenyan game park, a week at Club Med and a millennial New Year's Eve celebration in Jackpot, Nev. When her travels fail to do little more than help her avoid family gatherings fraught with awkward questions about wedding dates, she moves on to experimenting with feng shui and volunteering for Habitat for Humanity, chimpanzee research and wheelchair athletes. She even submits her photo to hotornot.com, but draws the line at psychotherapy. Succumbing to the inevitable online dating experience, Schlosberg develops an efficient but ineffectual system of screening candidates, which she then tries out at the eight-minute Starbucks Speed Date. To celebrate her 1,001 days without sex, she sets off for the Arctic Ride of Pain, a mountain-bike trip to Deadhorse, Alaska, unexpectedly finding herself stranded in the dying town of Provideniya, Russia, where, finally giving up hope, her spirits improve. It's only then, of course, that Schlosberg finally meets her future husband, bringing her story to a sentimental but satisfying conclusion. Singles in their 30s will get the most out of this book, but anyone can appreciate Schlosberg's wacky humor.
Copyright (c) Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
-- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.
There are no customer reviews available at this time. Would you like to write a review?
Grand Central Publishing
June 01, 2004
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from The Curse of the Singles Table by Suzanne Schlosberg
One Thousand Days
I could tell you that I came to the most remote corner of Arctic Russia because of an interest in life on the tundra in the post-Soviet era. Except it wouldn't be true. The reason I'm here is that I have gone one thousand forty-four days without sex.
Let me clarify: I did not come to Provideniya to get laid. That would be like traveling to North Dakota for Ethiopian food. There are maybe forty single guys in this town, and it appears that the majority are border guards wearing the type of oversized sunglasses last seen on Starsky and Hutch. Not a good look, really.
The truth is, I came to Provideniya-a near ghost town of crumbling concrete with no cafes, no hotels, not even hot running water-because it seemed like the perfect place to commemorate my One Thousand Days. My own personal New Millennium.
The fact that I have been stranded here for a week seems especially appropriate. The fact that I don't really want to leave comes as a bit of a surprise.
I can't recall exactly when I started counting, but at some point, back home in Los Angeles, I did some calculations and determined that I was closing in on a historic milestone. One thousand days, in case you're doing some calculations of your own, is ninety-two days shy of three years. It is just thirty-six days shorter than the duration of the Kennedy administration. Other than my parents' former housekeeper, Esperanza, an ex-nun from El Salvador, I do not know anyone under the age of seventy who has even approached this record.
With no prospects in sight, I am, at age thirty-four, becoming the Cal Ripken of celibacy.
Now, I'm sure you're wondering how I got into this predicament. Do I look like Freddy Krueger? Do I dress like Barbara Bush? Am I too picky? Too bitchy? Too shy? Do I have agoraphobia? Chlamydia? Really bad foot fungus?
Good questions, all of them. Questions that I have, at one time or another, mulled over. Questions that members of my family ask frequently and loudly at our Jewish-holiday gatherings.
The short answer to all of these questions is no. Or, as they say here in Provideniya, nyet.
I suppose I could have sex. In fact, just last month, through my Internet dating service, I received the following e-mail from a twenty-one-year-old bicycle messenger: "I would like to spend a night with a wonderful woman. I am young but I am mature. I am French, also. I love pleasure, exchange of energy! What about you?"
The thing is, most consenting adults can find sex, if they're willing to go to bed with someone they're not especially attracted to or fond of. But here's the other thing: Yes, I'm looking for sex, but I'd like something more, too. At the very least, I'd like a little mutual desirability. I'd like the tiniest spark. And I'd like a guy who can utter the phrase "I feel" in a context other than "I feel like eating at Burger King."
Don't get the wrong idea: I am not all that virtuous. I'm certainly not saving myself for Mr. Right. I'd be perfectly amenable to taking Mr. Remote Possibility for a test drive. But somehow, despite my valiant efforts over one thousand days, even he doesn't seem to have made an appearance. As a consequence, I've been left in a state of sexual deprivation that I previously thought impossible. What's it like to go without sex this long? Well, let's just say that unlike Cal Ripken when he was riding his streak, nobody's cheering, least of all me.
During my epic dry spell, I've been out with so many guys that I have developed a system of dating strategies complex enough to warrant doctoral study. I have vowed to broaden my search, to try harder. I've vowed not to try at all and just "let it happen." I've tried to appear more available and less assertive. I've tried to appear less available and more assertive. I've done just about everything but lower my standards or give up completely, because the truth is, I still have hope.