It’s a stock question. The tone varies: there’s ‘pitying’, with undercurrents of ‘you’ve been single since time immemorial, you clearly need to lower your standards’; and there’s ‘brisk and bright’, where the question comes in the wake of a motivational speech from your friend-turned-matchmaker.
Then there’s the awkward moment when the question is put to you by… your type. It’s tempting to look him in the eye and say, ‘well, you,’ but obviously that’s not an option. No? No. The situation requires a more delicate touch. You suddenly come over all absent-minded and offer up a few generics: intelligent, funny, polite…tall, dark, errr (don’t say handsome, don’t say handsome)…big hair? Handsome would have been better. Type’s interest is waning; time for some specifics.
‘Hardworking, open-minded, able to laugh at himself.’ The list runs on in my head: kind, bright, passionate, strong, honourable, ambitious, friendly, warm… a keen recycler.
Type gets up, goes over to the fridge, and roots around for some blueberries to snack on. He places them on the table between us.
Did I mention ‘generous’ and ‘healthy’?
Shoot me now.