Like a Poisoned Ant Crippled by Asphyxiation

That is going to be my new bumper sticker. I feel like that is the state of modern, mature (cough, cough snicker, snicker) romantic entanglements. Not really the stuff of epic romances, we’re all much too cynical and well read for any of that stuff really. But still interesting enough to stop and watch for a few moments at least. Ants are highly intelligent creatures; you know they would make adequate husbands. They work hard; work well as a team and are pretty utilitarian in the looks department. Sure maybe they aren’t the best conversationalists. Maybe they aren’t the guy you fantasized about dating when you were a young, impressionable girl, adept at letting yourself fantasize about frivolous, wonderful things like what would Jordan Knight look like with his pants off and who would you be dating when you were in your (gulp) late 20s. But they are around, and they are fast and attentive and when you do grown up things like work a career-job and tend to the home-stead and milk the cows and paint the barn; sometimes all you have time for is some simple ant-type guy that comes over once in a while with a picnic dinner and wants to watch season one of Beverly Hills 90210 on DVD all night long.

But you know, there are only 22 episodes of 90210 season one and at some time you are going to have to stop watching 90s serial dramas and decide where to go from here. With ants, there really isn’t much choice. Ants do what ants do. Have you ever watched an ant? I mean, really watched one? I have. Extensively. The when, where, why how and really why of that are fodder for a lengthy psychiatrist visit. But, I digress. Just trust me; I have watched my share of ants. When they eat some poison; they continue their little job. The keep moving that little crumb of pita bread along the designated path until their knees start to give out. And they keep trying to go, wobbly knees and all. Then their breathing starts to become labourous. They start falling down in exhaustion and yet they keep getting up and continuing towards their goal line slow and arduously. Sometimes they make it. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they literally die trying to bring that crumb home.

Wouldn’t it be smarter to just head home and drop the pita bread? Well, an ant’s brain doesn’t work that way. It will continue on the path even though the path is going nowhere slowly. It is sad and a little, tragic. But I have little sympathy for the ant (Except that he was poisoned; that is the worst way to kill an ant; but that’s not the point). The ant is so stuck in his ways. He won’t budge from his mission. I am ant: love me or lump me!

So I’m putting it out there: single guys in their late 20s are soooo ants. Stubborn in their resolve to do thing a certain way and to keep on a path that is both uninspired and endless. The ant will continue in the relationship that sees no future and will do so through bouts of un-returned phone calls; messy, loud arguments and passionless sex.
The Ant has a high threshold for pain and abuse. He will withstand the wishy-washy behaviour of flighty and overscheduled girls. He will always be around. Because he has his eye on the goal. Wobbly knees, respiratory problems, heart attacks et al.: he just wants to score. Even if the goal is ugly; like it squeaks through the knee pads of the goalie and he has to mow her over just to get close to the net. That’s his goal. The ant would never be awarded the Lady Byng trophy for sportsmanlike conduct, if you know what I’m saying.

Okay, okay. Enough with the creepy sex metaphors and ant-bashing. What is my point, you ask? Well, my point is simple. Time is running out. We are not getting any younger. So if a relationship is going nowhere; don’t be a poisoned ant crippled by asphyxiation. Get over it. Move on. The perfect match must be out there somewhere, right? Maybe, maybe not. But I do know one thing. You won’t find him by staring at ants all day.