Rookies of the Year.

I've decided that graduating college without a serious boyfriend is quite the double-sided sword. On one hand, after graduation, I had the ability to roam free around the world for six months with no one to hold me back and no one to check in with each night (besides my mother who bought a blackberry for the sole purpose of bbm-ing me at all times with no regard for the nine hour time difference and the fact that her afternoons were my middle of the nights). Having no outside influence on where I was going in life the day I left San Diego, enabled me to move to Germany, travel Europe, and finally move to Seattle, flirting my way across the globe, talking, dancing and laughing with anyone I pleased, no matter the age difference or language barrier. This freedom allowed me to capture the attention of Simon the Italian high fashion model, Daniel the aspiring British soccer player, and Paul my German house brother. And though the latter one I could have probably done without, I was unattached, independent, and totally loving every second of my life as a single American woman abroad.

The other side of the sword however, and the one that recently has been stabbing me repeatedly in the eyeballs, is the fact that now settled in Seattle, I have absolutely no idea where and how I am supposed to find young, eligible, single, men here in America. Without the frat parties and the super late nights pretending to do homework in the library during college, where does a girl like me have to go to make eyes with someone? This question alone makes me miss my days across the ocean. There was just something effortless about my time in Europe. Maybe it was the way my heels sounded while walking the cobble stone streets under the moonlight, or maybe there truly was something in that wine that I drank far too often. Whatever it was, it was good, it was romantic, and it was simple. If only that European effortlessness could translate to Cascadian English, the official dialect here in the Pacific Northwest. My life would be so much easier.

I recently read an article in a local magazine boasting that Seattle is ranked as one of the top five US cities to meet singles. "Looks like I'm in the right place" I thought instantly. Then I read on.

The magazine continued that on average, a thirty year old in Seattle must meet at least five hundred people in the city before they find one person that they are compatible with. FIVE HUNDRED??? Well I'm no thirty year old, and I'm definitely not a mathematician, but I am quick enough to figure out that based on that fact alone, one would have to literally never stay home and always be out on the town. Bars, coffee shops, restaurants, parks, I mean honestly, it just sounds completely exhausting.

Thus, my next point, and the clincher in all of this. In a place that claims to have over 300,000 singles within twenty miles of the city limits, there really can't be that many places for the few good men out there to hide. Unless of course, they never leave the comfort of their own homes, which I am not exactly ruling out. This summer Darcy, Madison, and myself have embarked on a mission to seek out the places that these singles frequent in attempt to increase our own odds of finding compatibility in this city by hitting the streets of Seattle and getting the hell out of our apartment.

So far, this mission has really taken us to new heights. Bleacher seats to be exact. And after attending a few games, we now have the Seattle Mariner's scene down to a science. Club Safeco, as we like to call it can be broken down as such: Cover for bleacher seats = ten dollars, One 12 oz domestic beer = eight dollars, one hot dog with ketchup = nine dollars (and the additional deep regret in the morning), watching attractive males in the beer garden heckle our home team which has one of the worst records in the American League = priceless. And though we have yet to actually get a date out of the guys we have met in the beer garden, or even a drink for that matter, at least we're putting ourselves out there. And just as the mariners are beginning to pick up their game, so are we.

From Mariner's games to intentions of joining a co-Ed intramural flag football team, our wheels are turning. They have to be, as I would really like to dull the side of the sword that keeps jabbing me, constantly reminding me that though I may be free, I am single and I only have seven more years before my odds really go down the drain here in this city. This summer we will be venturing off our red couch and making ourselves available, more accessible. Maybe we'll meet new friends, new people to flirt with, or maybe we'll just have fun together. Whatever the case, I'm determined to find Seattle's romantic cobble stone streets and a good glass of wine to match.

Last night at an hour far too late for us to be awake, or at least far too late for us to be awake at home, Darcy stated something so true, so cheesy, and so the anthem of our summer. She said in total seriousness paired with maybe a bit of deliriousness, "The more mingling, the more jingling" and after quite a bit of contemplation and laughter, I have decided that this is right on. However, hopefully for me, that jingling on my phone will come from a tall, dark, American man, rather than my mom. On the late night. Sending me endless emoticons.