He takes everything too seriously, except for himself. He’s well-traveled. He’s too smart for his own good. He’s cocky– just short of too much– and pretentious (just past too much). He’s ambitious, but not in a business-y way. He’s compassionate to a fault. He’s stubborn and he’s moody and he’s a little bit of an asshole.
It’s more than a Type. It’s a one-way express pass to my heart, or at least to my rumpled bedsheets.
My two serious boyfriends were several years apart, not to mention thousands of miles, but they had some eerie similarities. Both were vegan. Both were soccer players. And both were thrift-store-shopping, from-scratch-cooking Scrabble champions from Kentucky. How do you get that specific? It’s like I special ordered them from some freaky catalog.
“Oh, you’re out of the Kentucky model? That’s ok, I’ll wait…. no, West Virginia is not the same thing.”
A few additional points, in case you’re taking notes:
But lately, I’ve witnessed a disturbing trend in my dating life. My past several crushes have advertised themselves on Facebook as… cue ominous music… Moderate.
Now, this may not sound like much to you, but to a bleeding heart commie pinko such as myself, calling yourself ‘Moderate’ is like saying you pal around with Dick Cheney on the weekends, bombing Iraqi civilians and running over baby seals with your Ford Explorer.
And yet. There it is.
Maybe it’s because I want someone to balance me. Maybe it’s because my mother married a Republican. Or maybe it’s because I’ve spent the past six years up to my eyeballs in tree-hugging, granola-crunching hippies and I need a break from the lingering stench of sandalwood and hypocrisy.
Either way, if you’re sitting center-left on the political spectrum, you are officially in the running for VP of my Heart.
Dropped out of high school to join the circus? Toured the country for three years in a VW van, filming a documentary on small town art cinemas? Make your living in a completely ridiculous, unsustainable way? LET’S MAKE OUT.
I don’t mean to limit myself so drastically. I’ve legitimately tried to branch out. I once slept with someone who was a full six or seven inches taller than me, I recently kissed a boy with blue eyes, and I’ve made out with at least one person who had a 401k.
When I first started seeing FF, I was smugly pleased with myself. Here I was, kissing a boy who wore baseball caps! He ate red meat. He had a big screen TV in his living room and he went to football games on purpose. It all felt so subversive. I pretended to be embarrassed, but I was secretly thrilled.
However, I quickly realized that beneath his pseudo-frat exterior, FF was the same self-absorbed, temperamental genius I always go for. The cover may change, but the book is always the same.
My mother’s childhood best friend loves German Shepherds. She loves them. It’s the only kind of dog she’s ever owned.
Tragically, German Shepherds are prone to painful, expensive hip problems and every dog this woman has ever brought home has ended up with early-onset hip dysplasia. Every single one. She’s spent thousands and thousands of dollars on these dogs and cried countless tears and my mother cannot figure out why in the ever-loving hell this woman keeps buying German Shepherds.
It’s something I think about a lot.