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Everyone knows the stereotype of the Creepy Old Cat Lady – the one that lives down the street whose husband died decades ago, or was just never married/involved/whatever, and started conversing more with her one cat than people, and next thing you know, she’s staring down the barrel of retirement with only two dozen felines to keep her company.

The girls I’ve been going out with lately are no where near old (between 23 and 37), nor have they been creepy, but I assume at one point in Creepy Old Cat Lady’s past, she was also a nubile young woman with only one or two pets, some fulfilling career and/or hobbies, and hopefully a couple of suitors. Where’s the inflection point? Where does it go from loved familiar to menagerie? Desk photos from boy/girl-friends and parents to a litter of longhairs? When does reciprocal conversation get replaced with baby-talk and purrs?

Why do I even care?

Because every girl I’ve gone out with lately have one thing in common: A cat. Every. Single. One. Not 80 or 90 percent, no, a solid 100 percent. Perfect. Impeccable. Faultless.

I’m allergic to cats.

Not in that “oh, my nose is sniffly, can we get the cat off the bed?” sort of way. I mean, I’ve been to the emergency room, twice, because my throat has swollen shut preventing me from breathing. Any idea what it’s like to wake up in the middle of the night because your brain is starving for air? Uncomfortable, to say the least. And when you’re slamming on your roommate’s door to wake him up and take him to ER, you notice that your balance isn’t quite what it used to be, and it takes extraordinary effort form even short sentences. When I’d stay at my ex-girlfriend’s in Oakland, sometimes I’d have to walk around the block a few times to get fresh air in my lungs and allow my throat to re-open. Yeah, that’s right, a lone white guy wandering around the block in Oakland at 2am in slippers and a robe. It’s that bad.

But you just have to deal with it. When I’ve said in the past, at that delicate point where a series of dates threatens to pivot to a fledgling relationship, “look, you know how I’m deathly allergic to cats, so, ah, it’s kinda either me or tabby, or we never stay at your house,” I’ve received nothing short of caustic stares of disbelief and angry protestations. “I’ve had him longer than I’ve know you!” “Deal with it!” “You’re a man aren’t you? Sack up!”

Because, when it comes down to it, the cat is still more important than I am. But I don’t get to be the more important part until I’ve demonstrated my love and proven my worthiness – at which I’ve been living with a cuddle-bug of a dander-factory constricting the enjoyment out of my life faster than the latest Police Academy offering. So you just have to grin and bear it.

I wonder if, when these short relationships end, am I contributing to the probability that she becomes Creepy Old Cat Lady, am I reinforcing some sort of “Tabby doesn’t give me ultimatums, Tabby is better than men” sort of mentality. It’s some sort of immature visualization of a grand scale, a writhing mass of cats on the right and a series of allergic ex-boyfriends on the left: too many allergic boys, and she’s gotta hang out with the kitties to keep everything on an even keel.

And what’s the analogous stereotype for men? Creepy Old Drunk Bar Guy? Creepy Bizarre Hobby Collector Guy? Creepy Agoraphobic Internet Guy?

Where’s my scale?