Something odd has happened in the last two years. Several female friends have asked me to be their husband backup. It's an odd deal, where they can explore the world, and if they're still single at a certain age-and I'm single, too-they can claim me as their groom.
The husband backup phenomenon is very flattering; it's their way of saying, \You know, Amos, you're not quite interesting enough to date, but if I have no other foreseeable options when menopause is about to kick in, you seem likely to still be fertile and stable."" And women are supposed to be the romantic ones, right?
But last week, I found my own shortcut to marital bliss: a Web site that offers mail-order brides. Customers could search by region, by height and weight; even by key interests and religion. Somewhere in the world is a man saving his love and money, waiting patiently for a 6'11"" Hare Krishna who likes volleyball.
So I chuckled and even found links to places where egalitarianism excelled and mail-order husbands could be found, too. But when the laughter subsided, I did what us New Yorkers are trained to do in such situations: I started shopping. But I wasn't going to settle. I was seeking the perfect woman.
""Baseball, 'Family Guy,' and Goldfish crackers,"" I typed into areas of interest.
The site found no matches. Widening my search, I found an attractive Jewish woman from an unpronounceable town in Russia. She claimed to be an economist who spoke excellent English.
""Wow,"" I thought. ""I've never dated a woman who spoke excellent English before!""
And who could ignore the benefits? Green cards may not be romantic, but aren't we all looking for people who know what they want and express it clearly? And think of all the times you awkwardly run into former flames. If things go south with a mail-order bride, she gets deported. No muss, no fuss. This would be the most convenient marriage ever. I called my mother to share the joy.
""Mom, I've got good news and bad news. I've found a nice Jewish woman I want to marry, and she's willing to marry me.""
Silence.
""The bad news,"" I continued, ""is that she's going to take three to six weeks for delivery.""
""Three... to six... weeks... for delivery,"" she replied.
But it turns out she wasn't upset about the bride thing. She was more concerned the delivery remark referred to a forthcoming grandchild. In fact, it was troubling how none of the women in my life found any of this at all surprising or offensive.
""Don't worry, Amos,"" my friend Emi responded. ""We'll find you a girlfriend one of these days.""
But it makes sense that the women closest to me knew I could never go through with it. First of all, my goal in life is to be the male equivalent of barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. I like kids and cooking, and I need a woman that can support my expensive tastes. Mail-order brides don't seem likely to pay my tab at the Blue Velvet Lounge.
More importantly, if there's anything we learn from college, it's that love and convenience almost never go hand in hand. How often do we fall for someone who lives far away? Or for someone with a prohibitively busy schedule? Or someone already in a relationship? Love is designed to be irrational so that we can't take shortcuts like these. That's why I could never purchase a mail-order bride and that's why the husband-backup craze can never work either.
But if I make it to 40 still single, I hear those Hare Krishna lady volleyball players make a pretty nice living.
amosap@hotmail.com.
