By Dana Schuster

There’s something I can appreciate in a prematurely balding, cargo-pants-wearing, only-one-inch-taller-than-me man carrying a withered leather briefcase as he runs to catch the express downtown. There’s just enough oomph in his step to make the train; but he’s also restrained enough that his armpit sweat stains don’t bleed down the length of his body.

In all admitted shallowness, I wouldn’t give him a second look—except for one of pity- infused repulsiveness—if our eyes met on the street. If he came and hit on me at a bar, I would probably subconsciously cross my arms and radiate all those “unapproachable” and “not open” signals that men are subconsciously supposed to pick up on and, subsequently, walk away from. (Did you know that showing a man the inside of your wrist is a sign of interest and sexual openness? Big cuff bracelets be damned!)

But I can appreciate the fact that an older me—an older, thirtysomething single me, would probably give him a second glance on the street. I would probably listen to him talk about his college glory days at a bar, and I’d probably let him buy me a drink. Hell, I might even buy him a drink to show him what a cool, liberated kind of woman I am.

But the 22-year-old me isn’t ready to settle. And the truth is, even though I might shell out $8 to buy the sweaty, then-bald (or is it merely shaved?) man an imported beer eight years from now, I probably won’t settle then, either.

Appearing in the March 2008 issue of the Atlantic Monthly, Lori Gottlieb’s controversial piece “Marry Him!” argues in favor of settling for a mate, instead of holding out for the perfect partner.  She wants women to ignore the meddling and (from what I can assume from the plethora of television references in Gottlieb’s article) media-induced pressures to find a man whose laugh, looks and learnedness make you swoon.

Clearly, the bulk of Gottlieb’s “hear it firsthand, girlfriend” advice is targeted to a growing crowd of over-thirty and not-so-happily single women. But Gottlieb also recommends women in their twenties also “settle” and says they should “do it young, when settling involves constructing a family environment with a perfectly acceptable man who may not trip your romantic trigger—as opposed to doing it older, when settling involves selling your very soul in exchange for damaged goods.”

Some of my friends who are recent college grads seem to be taking Gottlieb’s advice to heart. “Find a guy who loves you more than you love him,” one perpetually attached friend advises. “You always want to be better looking than whomever you date,” another one says.

Lower your standards and you’ll come out on top and be happier. The kids are speaking Gottlieb’s language. And they haven’t even really had their hearts broken yet.

But is it really so terrible if I want to love a guy more than he loves me—or at least, in a gravity-free state of perfection, love him equally as much? Or is it so bad if I want him to be hot? I mean, handbag, man-accessory hot? I want to feel passionate about the relationship, experiencing all the anxiousness and uncertainty that comes with passion. And I want to feel the physical attraction—not just be the recipient of it.

Perhaps my unwillingness to settle plays a part in my perpetual state of singleness. I haven’t yet had a serious “bring home to meet the family” boyfriend, a fact that my parents (who have married off my sister, and soon they’ll also relinquish my elder brother to the wonderful world of matrimony) have recently become much more aware of: They now hoard my business cards to distribute to any and all eligible bachelors.

I often discard interested suitors with an ease and speed that makes even some of my closest friends nervous. There’s the tall British guy, but even after a bottle of shared sake he lacked wit; there’s Jack from the New York Sports Club who periodically shouts “Let’s do this!” during spinning classes while his fist pumps in the air; there’s the funny guy from college with hair sprouting from his nose but who my sister would consider a prime “fixer upper.” But if I know what I want and he’s not it, why waste anyone’s time? I want to buy the real estate intact and immaculate; I don’t want some unimpressive hut that’s stable but needs a bit of work.

Gottlieb writes in her article: “The paradox, of course, is that the more it behooves a woman to settle, the less willing she is to settle; a woman in her mid- to late 30s is more discriminating than one in her 20s.” Gottlieb’s wrong. Save for a few jaded friends, we twentysomething women are not only discriminating, we are fastidious. But I will cede Gottlieb one point: My generation is willing to settle, in one sense of the word.

More and more should-be-idealistic twentysomethings are relinquishing the expectation that they will meet their one and only during a fateful run along the East River or when reaching for the same book (gasp!) at Barnes and Noble. Maybe it’s the 11-hour workdays. Or maybe it’s the fact that the stigma associated with online dating has all but vanished. Either way, they’re not waiting until 30 to finally cave in and sign up for Match.com or blacksingles.com. They’re jumping on the bandwagon at the first sight of the real world.

Settling in terms of how you meet your mate is different than settling in terms of with whom you are willing to mate. But also (and this is the actual paradox), my generation’s willingness to yield to online dating has only made my peers pickier and more unwilling to accept a “perfectly acceptable” companion than ever before.

Look at the preponderance of young New Yorkers hooked into the online dating world. Men and women have a virtual checklist of physical and mental and financial attributes that they demand suitors must boast to warrant a response to an email. They are settling  more ravenously than ever...comfortably into a bed of predetermined personal (and at times, societal) dating standards that make up their dream mates.

The chance of a nice, Jewish boy being swept off his feet at a bar by the equally nice but not so Jewish WASP from Maine disintegrates with every Jdate match he gets. The gold digger making waves on a millionaire matchmaking site certainly won’t settle for the warm-hearted mid-level city official she meets out one night at a play.

We grew up with email! We can screen dates online! We can court by religion, ethnicity, income and interests! We have a world of singles at our fingertips. Settle? Hah!

But in spite of being a control freak, I don’t want to settle for online dating (and the paradoxically anti-settling mentality it promotes). I don’t want to be so tightly linked into a box of rules that I am not willing to give a second glance to the buzz-cut, clearly I-banking type walking home from church in Columbus Circle (I said I want a sarcastic Jewish writer with curly hair, dammit!).

I’m still not going to settle and make house with someone who is “meh,” but oh-so “acceptable,” as Gottlieb describes all that one’s mate need be.  I’m holding out for the chance encounter, the flurries of not knowing someone (or their entire list of favorite hobbies) upon first contact, the nerves when you both reach for the same book at Barnes and Noble. All those good things you see on TV.
I'll be by the José Saramago section, waiting.