The Only Show in Town

I live in a very small town. Very. Small. Okay, not rural, exactly. As modern evaluations go, there's a Starbucks (let me repeat, we go here; I'm just using it as a nationwide basis for comparison), a Target within 15 minutes, and as rumor has it, even IKEA is coming. Between the city limits (15K people) and the outerlying school district area, we number around 35K.

That actually is quite a few people. Hardly rural. But you'd be surprised just how small we are.

Take my friend Kevin, who thought he lost his keys last week. Yesterday he was telling me that no fewer than 10 of his clients came in saying, "So, I heard you lost your keys... did you find them?" Without talking to anyone at the gym, or each other. How did they know he was looking?

Or my friend Karen, who went to high school here and literally knows everyone and how they're connected, maiden names, addresses, and life outcomes. (This is, to me, a full time job and migraine-inducing. I can't even remember which cars my own friends drive, much less a matrix of that depth.)

Someone recently said to me, "Who would you even date around here if you were single?" That got me thinking, Carrie Bradshaw-style, of a couple of my friends who are exactly in that situation -- divorced with kids and living in the same small town as their exes. If they did decide to date, who in the heck would be available? The pharmacist with a lisp and a bad haircut? The guy who always seems to be behind you at the bagel shop? Your fellow room-mom's ex?

For men, and there are a handful of divorced or never-married successful guys I can think of here, I guess being the only show in town, for lack of a better term, could be fun. On the other hand, knowing that everyone knows you're the only show in town has to be somewhat emasculating. Then again, I still think they have it easier than my female friends, who mostly go outside a 30 mile radius to seek out dates or even male friends. I think they've figured out that anonymity is bliss.