My mom (otherwise known as The Woman Who Would Be Grandma) has taken to announcing to anyone who will listen that I am "too picky."As the burlesque comedian would have said, "I resemble that remark." I may be selective, a little choosy and perhaps give my opinion too freely, but picky? Me? I don't think so, but I'll let you be the judge.NEVER, NEVER, NEVERThe married. The separated (in my opinion, what is the difference?). The abusive, or anyone who tells me how lucky I am that they'll go out with me. Drug addicts, the incarcerated or the insane need not apply. Also, I'm not a fan of long-distance relationships, and I don't like to fish in the company pool.RED FLAGSA red flag means I'll go out for coffee, but I need to know more. If my skepticism cannot be reasoned away, it turns into acid reflux and heartburn too strong to ignore.Dogmatic racist/sexist/intolerant opinions grow dull or infuriating. His work must interest him, since mine interests me. Also, I can't talk for long about television. I've never found common ground with certain professions - actors, doctors and insurance agents. Same goes for men younger than me.Drinking, smoking, swearing, bitterness and sarcasm don't bother me - in moderation. In excess, or having to listen to (unasked for) lists and lists of excuses why they want to stop someday but don't, is annoying.I will pay for my coffee and have, but it makes me question: How important is my company? If I do pay my own way, I no longer will feel obligated to listen politely to myriad details about my date's food allergies.RED HERRINGSJust like every other single out there, I have my, oh, shall we say, pet peeves?Excessive weight that makes walking difficult. Unshaven and uncombed appearance. Dirty, stained clothing and/or unkempt, litter-strewn vehicle. Bad breath. Facial piercings. Blind allegiance to (or obsession with) a certain celebrity, television program, genre of literature or political party. Preaching about, well, anything.This is not to say I won't (and haven't) dated these people.In my early dating career, I disdained dating bald men. Baldness is a terrible curse, but my distaste overwhelmed my sympathy.Then I met my hirsute husband, fell in love and watched cancer ravage him. Chemotherapy attacked the cancer, gave us more time together and destroyed his hair follicles. The first day I was incensed, but by day three, I no longer noticed. I simply saw a man I loved.STANDARDSWhen a friend, who agreed with my mom's opinion of me, admitted her own idiosyncrasies - no men who chew gum, or wear white socks - I blushed.Out dancing I've never said no, but I've discouraged and avoided one potential partner based entirely on his fashion sense. It isn't the baggy shorts or the white tube socks or the Birkenstocks; it is the collective ensemble that makes me cringe.I confronted my mom and asked what she means when she declares me "picky." She said I shouldn't be so choosy about whom I'll date. Perhaps my real problem is that I don't tell my mom every time I have a date. I find it best to avoid raising the expectations and noise of the jangling biological clock of a never-to-be-satisfied grandmother. I'm just thankful that, in the end, she agreed that of those she's met, I haven't let anyone go whom I should have kept.For while I don't think I'm picky about coffee or a dance, when it comes to long-term relationships and marriage, picky just about covers it.Sofia lives in North Seattle. She can be reached at needitor@nwlink.com.[[In-content Ad]]
