I inwardly congratulated myself for having beat the odds. All of them resembled the aging, stringy-haired members of the band Metallica. In Asia, the nerd is king. Because everywhere else, Barbie ends up with Ken, not his underemployed, socially-awkward, samurai-sword-collecting neighbor, Kevin. They were straight-forward and open-minded, for one thing. I asked for help reading restaurant menus and subway signs.
They were like kids in a candy store. This post may contain affiliate links. But as wide-spread as the problem seemed to be, it was one that many women avoided talking about. But it was hard not to feel jealous. Western women in Asia were like the Jennifer Anistons of the expat world. It was hard to be a single, western woman in Japan. Not true for their Y-chromosome-carrying expat buddies though. Most days I felt unattractive, unwanted and worst of all, unfemale. And through their Western, wire-rimmed eyes, they viewed relationships as an equal partnership, which was something the more traditional, close-minded of Japanese men still struggled to do. The Japanese men might have been frightened of us but the other expat men just flat-out ignored us. For the most part, I was happy for them. They were straight-forward and open-minded, for one thing. Furthermore, I was bilingual, well-traveled and college-educated. I asked for help reading restaurant menus and subway signs. Most western women came to Japan single and stayed that way. When not even a short skirt or slinky top attracted more than a passing glance and even construction workers, who could usually be counted on for a leer, regarded me with bored, blank expressions, I felt like a Martian. I turned to the Internet for advice and was surprised to learn that the Dateless Western Woman was a familiar character in the expat world, at least judging from the score of postings on expat forums by lonely, single females. And all of them were pressed up against the model-thin bodies of a heavily made-up Japanese Beauty Queen. Not that I wished it otherwise. I inwardly congratulated myself for having beat the odds. All of them were bearded and balding. They were true success stories. Because everywhere else, Barbie ends up with Ken, not his underemployed, socially-awkward, samurai-sword-collecting neighbor, Kevin. Who could blame them for taking advantage of a magical loophole that allowed them to date women out of their league? This would never happen anywhere else in the world. While the female expats spent Saturday nights alone, crying into their Ramen bowls, their male counterparts drank freely from the dating pool like they owned it. Strong, independent, assertive and outspoken, they were interesting to admire from afar, but no man would ever dream of striking up a conversation with one.
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