There is a magical island. Its whereabouts are unknown. On this island are men, thousands of men, who have chosen to live the rest of their lives on this island. These are the men whom, after a few great dates, you never hear from again. They're the guys you clicked with at that party and asked for your phone number who never call you. They are the husbands or boyfriends who disappear without a trace. Ever since Miranda first mentioned the island on "Sex and the City," I have wondered about this place.
What mystifies me is not where this island is, but what the heck those guys do on that island. Certainly, given the trauma and pain that accompanies telling a woman "I don't like you," the island must be minimally hospitable. Do they sit around campfires and tell stories of "that clingy girl" who drove them to this final resting place? Or do they hide the pain and go about their food gathering and hut-building? How can they bear to live without the comforts and amenities of civilization? How do they keep up with their episodes of CSI? Or is shedding one's worldly skin just a gladly accepted price for never seeing "that girl" ever again?
We may never find out. But I wonder.
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