Seeking Hampton Based Organically Grown Lover

Seeking Hampton – Based Organically Grown Lover

Do I want a date? Not really. Mostly, I just want to be noticed. You’ve seen my photo. You’re reading this. Already the existential aloneness that drove me to this page has abated. (This wanting to be noticed can get a little out of hand with me. Obnoxious, actually.)

Anyway, maybe we’ll find a match around one another’s fascination with paleobotany and the fact that trees communicate with one another through scent and their root systems. Maybe we’ll amble along accepting, or, dare I say, even celebrating one another’s eccentricities. By the way, “organically grown” refers to a high standard of self-maintenance. Naturally this involves eating organically grown food. But there’s more to self-care than Balsam Farms’ tomatoes. (If you are bored with discussions of produce, we are definitely not a match!)

Am I on your screen because I want a relationship the way most people define it, involving exclusivity, accountability, and exchange of bodily fluids? No. Few of these apply to what I want which is companionship in the darkness.

Requirements for the role of such a companion include but are not limited to the following:

Must live at least part time in one of the Hamptons, or, for a refreshing change, on the waterfront in Flanders where you’re so much closer to Spicy’s Barbecue and to Steve at Green Earth Grocery. He knows everything about how to befriend digestive flora. (Must not mind that probiotics are one of my favorite topics.)

Separate dwellings obligatory! It doesn’t matter if one of us is in Montauk and the other is in Quogue. I like commuting. If you don’t enjoy the metaphorical foreplay of such a delicious interval of anticipation, we are not a match. More importantly, if we part we will not be bound by stressful real estate concerns and be forced to cohabit when we’d rather not.

Must know what Ashwagandha is and who at Second Nature Market to ask about best brand and dosage.
Must not mind having separate vacations in case our ideal destinations don’t match. I don’t travel far and wide. I like near and narrow. Perfect vacation spot: Sag Harbor after Labor Day.

Must not mind if, when you’re having pizza at Sam’s, I don’t share it with you, I’ll be having their roast chicken with a side of sautéed spinach. However, must be willing to go with me to Babette’s so I can rhapsodize about the barbecued tofu.

Must be patient with my insistence that it IS important to make that extra stop at Iacono’s on Long Lane in East Hampton for their eggs.

Must be over 60 and have a healthy prostate. If not a healthy one, then one you are supporting with Saw Palmetto and African Pygeum Root which you’re taking only because your ex, with whom you’re still dysfunctionally enmeshed, insists.

If anything about the last remark fits, this proves you’re not a robot and are welcome to reply. And naturally, if you are a gastroenterologist seeking someone fascinated by discussions of ileocecal valve syndrome during dinner at Springs Tavern, let’s make a date.

Here, like a dowry, are the challenges I bring:

If you are aiming for cozy nights with an intoxicating woman, you need to know that I hate being naked even when I’m alone. I must be wearing something. I prefer black bikini panties trimmed in lace with a black camisole. (I may be gluten-free but I’m not entirely unsexy.) The East Hampton beaches are reserved for people who like to feel sun on their skin. I like to feel 100% cotton on mine. I appear at Indian Wells Beach fully dressed against sun damage and wearing headgear a la Edie Beale in Grey Gardens.

To make up for lack of nakedness or other anticipated pleasures: You will not be burdened by caring for me when I am in decline. Once the downward trajectory of my slippage slants too acutely, I am leaving. More than three weeks of intense pain unfixable by Arnica, Percocet, pinot noir, cocaine, cannabis, or chocolate and I’m out. No longer will I be found walking on Gerard Drive or trolling slowly through the village parking lots in July. Pushing me around in a wheelchair will never become necessary, as I have a Switzerland plan. If you’re wondering what Switzerland has to do with ending it, please Google.

I must emphasize that if there is indeed another ex, I’m glad! She can be the one to go with you to your grandson’s Bar Mitzvah. Oy the theatrics, the hair do’s, the handbags, the shoes, the kvelling about how he’s already fluent Urdu and Mandarin. Anyway I could not possibly sit through 4 hours of the Torah no matter how grand the East Hampton Synagogue is, even if The Art of Eating is catering the reception you paid for. Also the ex can take you to the doctor appointments in Southampton and endure an hour of CNN in the over-cool waiting rooms.

The floor of my car looks like the bottom of a birdcage. There are pumpkin seeds and shreds of carrot sprinkling the black rubber mats because I love eating while driving. This will no doubt annoy you, along with the revelation that I have 3593 undeleted e-mails. Why these things should annoy you, I have no idea, except that maybe you are not a postponer. (Have we just had our first fight?)

One of these e-mails arrived as the result of cumulative information of my past ordering habits that indicate the likelihood of my interest in certain products and services. It seems the internet has determined that I would be interested in a book by an FBI hostage negotiator entitled, “It’s Not All About You.”

Ok enough about me! A question for you: Are you noticing that what we are reading are marketing blurbs from total strangers in order to bask imaginatively in some future “rutopia?” (Romance + utopia = rutopia, pun intended of course.) Are we pathetic? If yes, we’re a perfect match!