I'm not a city girl, that much I know for sure. I tried the city life on for size in my late-teens/early-twenties, and took a severe dislike for it. I didn't like living in a tiny apartment. I didn't like taking the bus. I didn't like the hustle & bustle of downtown Ottawa. I didn't like working in an office with no windows.
About the only thing I did like was my close proximity to McDonalds. And that sure wasn't helping me find a man.
So I moved back home after being offered the perfect small town job, at Mountainview Turf, where I can look out the window and see fields of green surrounding me, all summer long. And in the winter? Acres and acres of the white stuff, which we all know I love. (Getting a little sick of it now, though, I must admit...) I get my exercise by walking from one end of town to the other, and when I come back from my walk, my arm usually hurts more than my legs, from waving so much at the friendly faces passing me by. I found my own little place to rent, gaining my independence from Mom & Dad, yet still only a few minutes away from "home" when I need to be there.
And for the past seven years, I haven't left my small town very often.
This is where I'm comfortable. This is where I feel safe. (Although after reading Chris' comment on my last post, I'm starting to wonder about that...)
Ahhh, but see here's the problem for the Single Girl living in Quyon: Small pond. Not many fish. And the ones that are still swimming around? Probably not worth baiting the hook for.
When lamenting my "single girl" status to friends, family, foes - or basically anyone who will listen - they almost always have the same piece of advice for me. Get out of Quyon, Jill!!
A few years ago, at Schock family Christmas dinner at Aunt Marion's, I was getting heat from the cousins for showing up at yet another family dinner without a man. That's right. Every Christmas. Every Easter. Every Thanksgiving. Every Grandma's Birthday Party. I have always been alone. And I know they're just dying for me to bring some poor shmuck to meet them so they can completely tear him apart.
They love me. They just have an odd way of showing it.
Anyways, at this particular Christmas dinner, some of the cousins were inquiring as to why I was alone, yet again. I had no real answer. Just a list of boys I had crushes on, but no hope of actually dating any of them. And as usual, the firm suggestion was: "You have to get out of Quyon, Jill. You're never going to find anyone in that town."
"But I don't want to leave!" I protested. "I love Quyon! I'm never leaving there, so any guy I end up with will have to move here, and unless they already live here, I don't think I could find any out-of-towner who would want to move here!"
Please note: For anyone who doesn't know my small town, it's small. REALLY small. One recently-opened restaurant, two seasonal chipstands, a bar, a corner store and gas station, a body shop, a garage, a post office, two elementary schools, and three churches. One of them is closed. That's about it. Not a whole lot to draw someone in.
I would have to be the drawing card. And I don't know if I have that sort of lure in me.
I think it was my cousin Erin who finally said this: "So...if you can't leave Quyon...maybe you should buy a motorhome? You can call it 'Quyon'. Then, you can travel to other places where there are more men to choose from. And you'll still be in 'Quyon'. Think about it."
But part of me knows they're all absolutely right. The good guys in this town have pretty well been picked over. There isn't much of a selection left.
My problem? Even when I do leave town, I can't find a man.
Take, for example, last summer. I went to Midland, Michigan with my brother's fastball team to the Worlds. I was surrounded by men for seven whole days. Men in ball uniforms. Lots of men who looked realllll nice in their ball pants. (And that's not easy to do, my friends.) Men from Canada. Men from the United States. Old men. Young men. Handsome, handsome, handsome men. Pitchers and shortstops and catchers, oh MY!
(OK, yes, I did kind of have my blinders on that week. I was a little too preoccupied with one ball player in particular. Who was not preoccupied by me. At all.)
But seriously, I didn't talk to any dudes other than Flyers, and this one guy who laughed at me when I accidentally tried to pay for a Mike's Harder Lemonade with Canadian Tire money.
Even when I leave Quyon, I HAVE NO LUCK!!!!
So throw me in an RV named "Quyon", if you think it will work.
But I have a feeling it won't.