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Boston is the least attractive city in the country, but probably also in the universe, and that universe includes Pittsburgh, where women wear Steelers jackets and mustaches to work, and Ittoqqortoormiit, Greenland, where women drink boiled whale urine to stay warm.
Those of us who live in Boston have suspected this all along – searching for attractive significant others in this city can make you feel like Tom Hanks in Cast Away – stranded, alone, unloved, and just about ready to do a volleyball in the air hole. But last week The Improper Bostonian confirmed our worst fears: we are all, or at least most of us, very ugly.
In its most recent issue, The Improper released a list of twenty of Boston’s “Most Eligible Singles,” a list that had all the inherent black, sad comedy of a school for the mentally challenged posting a dean’s list, or a wheelchair basketball team holding a slam dunk contest.
Kudos to the singles listed in The Improper – I hope they all get laid by each other, especially because they all seem like interesting, sexy-on-the-inside human beings, and especially because one of them is a former Navy Seal, and I’d rather he didn’t flip out, paint his face black, and slit my throat with a long, serrated knife in the middle of the night. But a lot of these “Hit Singles” aren’t all that successful, their clothes look like they were pilfered from the bargain rack at JC Penney, there’s some blatant male pattern baldness, lopsided cleavage, and one guy who pretty obviously went to his stylist and said, “Just give me a Dwight Schrute."
A couple months ago, Stuff@Night, another Boston magazine, released its “Bodies” issue. On the cover was Gabe Kapler, former Red Sox outfielder, who clearly takes pride in his body – he has legitimately freakish pre-op tranny C-cup pectorals. But many of the other featured bodies were
A) pale
B) fat
C) skinny, or
D) all of the above (somehow)
Granted, we are in the midst of a long New England winter, and our bodies are usually buried in layers of thermal underwear, wool sweaters and polar bear skins, but one would think that somewhere out there, inside one of those bundles of parka and fur, would be a hard, sexy body.
Not so in Boston. We are like fractured legs encased in plaster. You know how, when you finally get the cast sawed off after six weeks, your calf has atrophied, and the skin is even whiter than the plaster, and your leg hair is inexplicably longer and darker than anywhere else on your body? That’s how all Boston residents look when you peal away their layers of clothing – bony, pale, and hirsute, like a bar of soap that still has your roommate’s pubes on it. But we don’t smell like soap. We smell like trapped sweat and Kelly’s roast beef.
Rumors persist that there are Boston haunts for hot people. I hear the Sports Club/LA is a haven for attractive women who like to don sports bras and spend hours at a time on the elliptical trainer and finish their Pilates sessions with underwear pillow fights. This might be true, but a membership at Sports Club/LA costs about a thousand dollars a year, so
A) I will never be able to confirm or deny the rumor, and
B) The women are probably older, richer, and taken, like Nicole Kidman.*
In a legitimately hot city, even the poor people who can’t afford expensive gym memberships are attractive. You shouldn’t need money to surround yourself with attractive people. In L.A., for example, the homeless people are all failed actors or super models, so they’re all pretty hot, and much lower maintenance than someone you’d pick up in Sports Club/LA. Just flip your homeless date a buck, a cigarette, and a hint about this agent friend you know, and they’re ready to take off their flannel coat and bring you behind the Waffle House dumpster.
Lest you think I’m spoiled when it comes to living in attractive locales: I grew up in Maine. My home state has the highest obesity rate in the country, and most women still think this haircut is a good idea:
Then I went to school in New Hampshire and everyone said that we had unattractive women, but really there were a dozen or so very hot females, and at least it wasn’t a NESCAC school.** The point though, is that I’ve always lived in places where beer goggles were required “going out” attire. Boston, however, takes the concept to a whole ‘nother level. You need more than beer here. You need whiskey, Vicodin, and a shot of pepper spray to each eye.
How did this happen? Boston is the hub of New England, a rugged, outdoorsy region, and we should have the best, brightest, and most attractive that the six states have to offer. But hot people don’t stay here – they flock to the south, or the west, or anywhere but here like the salmon of Capistrano. Somehow the good-looking ones – especially the women – know how to find each other. That’s why they travel in packs, that’s why they go to the same clubs, that’s why they all apply to USC instead of Amherst, and that’s why they avoid Boston as if it were a bacon and gravy sandwich sprinkled with extra carbs.
The dearth of attractiveness in Boston has forced me to make a decision: I could stay here and encourage everyone to workout, tan, and invest in head-to-toe plastic surgery, or I could move. Option one sounds intense, and somewhat rude, so I think I’ll take option number two.
I’m off to L.A.
You should come too, but only if you’re hot.
*But seriously, check out the latest issue of W. Nicole looks amazing. I don’t care if she’s pushing forty or if she’s married to a cokehead “country” star. I’d still do her in a heartbeat. Or a sleeping bag. I’d do her in pretty much anything.
**Exception: Trinity
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