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Kirby: Seriously, would anyone date me?
This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2009, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

In our prenuptial agreement, my wife's list of marriage conditions is just over six pages long. I won't go into specifics, but it mentions everything from a ban on pet rattlesnakes to keeping a job.

My wife is not a picky or controlling woman. But she had heard the stories. She wasn't about to marry a guy who at least wouldn't try growing up enough to be a decent provider.

I only had one condition. It was a major deal breaker, though. We argued long and loud about its feasibility, but I refused to budge.

Here it is: "I die first."

Since it's almost impossible to find a woman foolish/patient enough to risk a relationship with someone like me, I wasn't about to get stuck looking for another one.

Thirty-four years later, I consider my prenup death clause a brilliant piece of negotiation. Despite a close call with cancer, she's still alive and making sure that I stay employed.

We're lucky. At this stage of life, many of our friends -- through death or divorce -- are single again and starting over. I see what they're going through. You couldn't make me do it at gunpoint.

One of my friends lost his wife to a heart attack two years ago. He's been on a number of dates since then, including blind ones set up by his mom, sisters, co-workers and even his LDS bishop.

"It's like being back in high school," he said. "Only now I weigh more, have less hair, and I actually watch the movies."

Another friend who divorced her husband says it's worse than high school. After attending several LDS singles dances, she won't go to another one without a Taser.

My wife says I'm being ridiculous. I've never hit her. I come home nearly every night. And I give her all my money. Plenty of women out there who would be happy to have a guy like that.

It sounds good up front. But then they'd get to know me better. Worse, they'd eventually talk to my mom or my kids.

To prove my point, I made trial searches on a couple of Internet matchmaking services. The first catered to Mormons, which I thought would make things easier. It didn't. Not only were there no matches, but I was immediately accused of lying or being demonically possessed.

The other service was larger and claimed to have a worldwide database. It wanted to know everything about me, including politics, religion, hobbies, sexual habits, medical history and my net worth.

Again, I was completely honest.

It took an hour. Of the millions of women looking for love on E-Smarmy, the only possible match was a 300-pound dominatrix in Arkansas. "Bullwhip Bunny" immediately sent an e-mail asking how romantic I found claustrophobia on a scale of 1-10.

My address must have been glommed onto by a several other services.

I'm hearing from Russian women, women in prison and women who actually charge for dates. I try to turn them down nicely, but they're persistent. I showed them to my wife.

"Keep it up," she said, "and you will die first."

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