Or wouldn't it be nice if we lived in a society where our parents chose a mate for us? In this world, everybody goes to the bath house once a week (whether they need it or not, ha ha) and scrubs down. You know everybody there and everybody there knows you because you've been going there since you were a kid. When you finally reach the age when it's time to hook up, your mom has a little whisper session in the bath house with a girl's mom and then says, “Son, you are going to marry a young woman named Jenn. She is five months younger than you, she loves making chocolate, she has nice eyes and some serious child-bearing hips. Good luck son.”

“But Mom, I'm deeply in love with....”

“Quiet son, wedding's in a month, better start working out.”

“But Dad, can't you talk some sense into her!? I am a free man and I want to follow my heart. My deepest heart's desire is...”

“Shut up son, listen to your mother, you're getting married, that's the way it is. And you better start sending resumes out, you're going to have a family to support pretty quick so you need a real job.”

My non-hypothetical dad has an idea about women. In his opinion, they are like rocks on a beach — they're either keepers or skippers. All unique and beautiful in their own way, but you only get one, so you better choose carefully. You have to walk the beach for a while, looking for the perfect one. Most you have to huck because they're metaphorically too big or too small or too jagged or too square. These are the skippers. But, if you're lucky, you'll find a keeper. And if you're lucky enough to find a keeper, you better grab it and never let it out of your sight. Although nowadays I'm sure my dad is thinking, “Just pick one for heaven's sake.” Last Christmas my parents put up a $500 bounty for any of the three unmarried brothers who could bring a legit prospective grandchild-incubator to Easter dinner.