Lori Gottlieb's case for settling for Mr. Good Enough in this month's Atlantic.

Oh it burns, it burns!

The blogosphere has already been plenty fired up over choice bits like

"ask any soul-baring 40-year-old single heterosexual woman what she most longs for in life, and she probably won’t tell you it’s a better career or a smaller waistline or a bigger apartment. Most likely, she’ll say that what she really wants is a husband (and, by extension, a child)"

and

"if you say you’re not worried, either you’re in denial or you’re lying. In fact, take a good look in the mirror and try to convince yourself that you’re not worried, because you’ll see how silly your face looks when you’re being disingenuous."

I'd sure love to steer Gottlieb to the powder room to see how silly she looks when she's being a complete dope. Thanks for knowing what's in the hearts of all the ladies! Thanks for assuming everyone with a vagina shares your hopes and fears! My sex feels superspecial when you do that. (Anecdotally, I know many single women, some of whom would be happy to partner up if the situation were right, and many who are equally content with their autonomy. And goshdarn they don't seem delusional.)

But I don't want to rag too much on Gottlieb's damming of my gender. Nor do I want to rail at the self-loathing bullshit it takes for a woman to get four pages in The Atlantic, although I COULD.

Nope. I want to take few words for her scorched earth policy, because if Gottlieb's hell on women, she's worse on men. Oh. My. God. When she chides, "Overlook his halitosis or abysmal sense of aesthetics," or talks about how "you walk into a room and start talking to this person who is 5'4" and has an unfortunate nose," I think, how very GENEROUS of you. She quotes a friend saying, "I bet there are plenty of these men in the older, overweight, and bald category (which they all eventually become anyway)." Jeez, it's a good thing we're all so perfect here on this side of the gender line, huh?

Can you imagine, for a minute, a story in a major monthly by a man that suggested, what the hell, just put a ring on the broad's finger, they all get dumpy eventually anyway. Who cares, as long as she picks your shirts up off the floor? Imagine flipping the gender on a phrase like this, "I say, 'OK, if you’re so unhappy, and if I’m so lucky, leave your husband! In fact, send him over here!'” Oh, ha ha ha. Because men can be traded like playing cards. Think how that would go over if we were talking about women.

My single friends will attest the pickings can be slim out there. And if the institution is more meaningful to you than the participants in it, if Charlotte Lucas is your idea of a good role model, grab whatever's got an Adam's apple and godspeed. I just wonder how huge a favor these women really think they're doing to their ostensible inferiors. A writer like Gottlieb is so caught up in the drama and pain of the female side, so mopily attached to the notion of having to scrape the bottom of the barrel, she's completely cavalier about the guys themselves. Have you ever been anybody's B-list? Imagine signing up for a life of that. Imagine living with someone who both considers herself your better and is also painfully grateful to you rescued her from spinsterdom. Those poor bastards.

She relates the story of her friend Chris, who believes he'll eventually land the woman he's in love with, when she gets desperate enough. Uhhh, congratulations? The sad thing is, there well may be a woman in the world who could love Chris, just for Chris. I know they're men and all, Lori, but wouldn't they want to be appreciated as intellectual and emotional equals?

The deck is not stacked equally, and sure, men of a certain age, I believe, have more options. But aren't we all -- male and female -- imperfect, annoying human beings with baggage and bad habits? (Anyone? Hello?) My friend Rob says that love is compatible neuroses.

Doesn't everybody deserve that?