I Tried to Find a Husband at the Jack Schlossberg Look-Alike Contest
Washington can’t define itself. It’s no wonder it’s impossible to define a relationship over here.
I wish to make a formal statement. To the pundits concerned about America’s childless cat ladies and what declining birth rates mean for the future of our country, I say: I’m trying my best. And I’m allergic to cats, thank you very much.
Every few weeks, I put on a nice top and some eyeliner. I then prepare my beating heart on a silver platter and offer it to the men of the greater DC-Virginia-Maryland area. My precious heart is promptly shattered and I swear I’ll never go on another date. Rinse, repeat.
People say dating in Washington, DC is uniquely terrible (please refer to the seventh season of Netflix’s hit reality show Love is Blind for additional context). People are correct. Dating, here defined as the quest to find a long-term, compatible, faithful and caring partner, is challenging across the US. But there’s something extra hellish about attempting to find lasting love in the heart of our great nation, a transient hub of political power and career opportunity. DC’s dating pool is full of ambitious singles. This is no-man’s land. No, really. Single women outnumber single men in the District. Washington can’t define itself. Does it want to be a state, or not? It’s no wonder it’s impossible to define a relationship over here.
There’s the ghosting and the polyamorous relationship reveals and the political divides. One can only endure so many “Yeah, I think you’re great, but I really need to focus on my career right now!” breakup texts. It’s tough in these cobblestone streets.
It’s now that time of year when I start to think it would be nice to have someone to snuggle on these cold, dark nights. It’s time to get serious.
Last week, I stumbled upon a Partiful invite with over a thousand RSVPs. The trendy celebrity look-alike contest has finally made its way to DC. In New York, it was Timothee Chalamet. In Chicago, Jeremy Allen White. Here in DC, the celebrity du jour is, of course, Jack Schlossberg.
John F. Kennedy’s sole grandson is the prototypical image of the specific kind of white dude that does me in. I like ‘em lean and lanky. Throw in some dark, floppy tendrils and a strong jawline and I’m hooked. Add charisma, a legacy of public service, and intellectual curiosity and I’m ready to put a ring on it. Let’s solve this declining birth rate crisis and make JD Vance proud.
I had to go to the Jack Schlossberg look-alike contest. There was a chance that Schloss might show up; Timothee Chalamet crashed the NYC contest. And, according to the Partiful invite, Jack shared the event to his Instagram story. Realistically, Actual Jack probably has some baggage. The Kennedys seem like a lot. Besides, the real Jack loves to paddleboard and I can’t swim. It would never work. But a Jack look-alike, now there’s a man for me.
Jack himself is a self-described silly goose. If a man is willing to come to Meridian Hill Park on a November Sunday afternoon for nothing more than a chance to win a giftcard, social media glory, and a good time, he is clearly a man who can commit to a bit, and that is the kind of guy I can build a life with.
I arrive three minutes late to the contest. It’s already in full swing. Hundreds have gathered. Fourteen imitation Jacks line up under the watchful eyes of bronzed James Buchanan. The two women who organized the contest shout into a pink megaphone. First, the Jacks will tell us their names and if they are single. “It’s a jack-off!” someone yells. Cue thunderous applause.
There’s Tastefully Sexy (white button-down slightly buttoned down, tie loosened) Jack, Short Jack, Mullet Jack, and Tall Jack. There’s also Literal Infant Jack (an actual baby). Mullet Jack removes his shirt completely and flexes. “My coworkers said this would help me get a girlfriend,” one of the Jacks sheepishly admits. “I didn’t come here to compete - I came here to husband-shop!” yells another. Me too, Gay Jack, me too. It seems we’ve all united here with a common goal.
I’m surrounded by hundreds of Zillenial women. We all look so cute in our matching wide leg jeans and puffer vests and white sneakers. We are collectively giddy and giggly. We clap and whoop for our favorite Jacks. My section favors Tall Jack from the start. “He’s got the right aura,” says Brooke, my spontaneous friend at the contest. Brooke’s right. Tall Jack has a certain discount-store Kennedy je ne sais quoi. Tall Jack says, “I am not single,” and is immediately booed.
Someone else is certainly single: a young woman who holds up a handmade “I’M SINGLE” sign. Ryan, my friend and one of the few straight men in attendance, finds me in the horde. He points at the sign. “Is this, like, a dating thing?” Apparently so. My ploy is unoriginal. DC’s most eligible bachelorettes have assembled in this lovely park on this lovely November day because city dating takes its toll and we know we probably don’t have a shot with a Kennedy but have decent odds with the next best thing. I spot another sign that reads, “If you look like Jack, I’m single!” “The ratio here is amazing,” Ryan sighs. “I love how many women are here!” says a sweet girl to my left.
We vote for our favorite Jacks by way of applause. The Jacks who advance to the next round must compete in Schlossberg trivia. The hosts reveal that the winner will be crowned with a tiara, for he shall be the people’s princess. A baby cries. It’s not Actual Baby Jack. Though he’s an infant, he’s taking his elimination like a man.
More are eliminated and the final Jacks are instructed to tell us why they deserve to be the people’s princess. Tall Jack takes the megaphone. “For me, it’s not about the princess. It’s about the people.” The crowd, now interspersed with rejected Jacks, cheers. “I’m trying to make my dad proud here.” Spoken like a true Kennedy. “Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack!” we chant. At this point, it’s no contest. Tall Jack is the people’s princess. He is crowned and asked what he plans to do after his victory. He’s going to see Wicked.
Tall Jack is swarmed by his admiring fans and immediately begins posing for photos. Media personnel start interviewing onlookers. I chat excitedly with Brooke and my other new friends. As I’m talking to Brooke and company about hometowns and holiday plans, another young lady approaches. She’s Brooke’s roommate, Lauren, and she’s holding the “I’M SINGLE” sign. Ryan asks Lauren how many men have approached her thanks to her prop. “None,” she frets. He volunteers to be the first. They exchange numbers, proving that love is real.
The contest is over in less than an hour. Those of us who are single and ready to mingle are soon mingled-out and the crowd thins. Tall Jack is still posing.
I did not find any prospective dates at the Jack Schlossberg look-alike contest. Rather, I found female kinship, the beauty of spontaneous connection, and the power of shared experience. I got laughs and sunshine. I had a wonderful Sunday afternoon.
Major outlets have tried to make sense of the current celebrity look-alike contest boom. It’s not that deep. The past few years have been kinda icky. Zillenials are like, “Okay, we get it, enough with the ‘unprecedented times.’” We are craving some precedent and some fun! We love silly little events and chances to do things for the bit. And we are doing just that.
Maybe the real Jack Schlossberg was the friends we made along the way.
Leave a comment letting me know who your dream celeb doppelganger date is 👀