Bright lights, tight pants
I'm so surburban it hurts. We can pretend that I live in the city, one that purports to be edgy and hip, though the Philadelphians may disagree. I don't live in THE city. I live in a suburb. And even if that suburb is hipper and happeninger than anywhere I've ever lived before, it's still SUBurban. The urban areas have night life. The urban areas have people in tight pants mulling. Suburban areas lack the tight pants element even when people mull at all.

That's no excuse. I live close enough that I could get out there and be part of the purported hipness, at least stand on its outskirts instead of just reclining on my couch in the outskirts.

Should I move? Even if I was in the tight pants zone, I'm not sure I would get out. The tight-panted seem to be partaking in some combination of the following: smoking, drinking, conversing. I am not particularly fond of combining those elements. So I would end up in my little city apartment, and if I paid an arm and a leg (more like all of my limbs in this area) perhaps I could poke my head out (since that's all that's left of me anyway) and watch the tight pants and their smoking, drinking, conversing good time. But I wouldn't. Generally, that's not how I have a good time.

So, what's the problem? There are so many women my age out there. And so few in here. I briefly considered converting the house into a speakeasy complete with secret knock, but Spoilsport said they'd only come here to smoke anyway to escape the local ban. So, I'm stuck. I've got nothing to lure the tight pants out of the city and no tight pants of my own (metaphorically speaking).

I'll be sitting in my rocking chair on the front porch if you need me.