The other day—a Friday night, to be exact—my roommate said she didn’t understand why we never met single guys.
“I really don’t get it,” I said to her, sitting on the couch in an oversized t-shirt, scrolling through the TV’s On Demand menu so I could watch Maria Menounos and Derek Hough’s rumba (for the third time) on “Dancing With the Stars.” “Hey, do you mind if I open a can of tuna?”