SWAMWFHAAGSOH spotted all over town

Whenever I go on vacation, I usually turn my wandering eye to the personal ads.

Of course, my dream "Women Seeking Men" entry is "Supermodel-turned-actress (you might have seen me in "Awake" or "The Fantastic Four") turned off by Hollywood bad boys, looking for SWAMWFHAAGSOH."

Which roughly translates to "Single, white, awkward male with facial hair and a goofy sense of humor," natch.

I've embraced my SWAMWFHAAGSOH status wholeheartedly, to the degree I'm considering wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the initials, and the freedom which comes from being one. It explains a lot of my odd behavior, and, better yet, enables me to keep my lights on in my apartment at all odd hours of the night without bothering a single soul.

If I want to eat ice cream for breakfast, I can.

If I want to drop everything and head to Wenatchee to eat ice cream for breakfast, I can. No explanation required.

My world totally rocks.

But I still like to keep an eye out at the personals, ever vigilant for my white whale of an advertisement, and also because I like to look at the "I Saw You" section, in which strangers try to make contact with other strangers they probably found attractive, but circumstances kept them from getting names and numbers at the time.

Since I'm usually just visiting, the odds are extremely unlikely that I'm one of the people who was spotted - those advertisements no doubt come a week later, after I've left the area, and the poor pretty girls who spotted me are no doubt heartbroken by my lack of reply.

They're usually unintentionally hilarious, such as "You, pretty girl who was arguing with your two-ton boyfriend who looks like he eats chainsaws for a living. Me, pasty youth in corner who couldn't work up the nerve to talk to you. Wanna live dangerously?"

Really, it begs the question, though: What would an "I Saw You" advertisement be from someone who actually saw me?

I fear reality may cloud the handsome lone wolf self-image I've manipulated myself into believing:

"Me, pretty girl. You: Bearded buffoon walking down Fourth Avenue singing song stuck in your head a little too loudly for comfort. Tune wasn't even catchy. You need to work on your rhythm."

"Me, pretty girl. You: Half-asleep the next car over, trying to pick your nose without anybody noticing. Guess what? I noticed."

"Me, pretty girl, flirting like all get out. SWAMWFHAAGSOHs are my turn-on. You: Nose-deep in Charles Dickens book, didn't even pay me any notice. Pfft. Whatever."

Please note the lack of such terms as "glistening biceps" or "smoldering good looks." These dames weren't as observant as they claim to be.

But that's all right. I shall, as the song says with a will, survive.

And right now, I'm feeling strawberry cheesecake in lieu of oatmeal.