November 21, 2011

Just My Type

I can't tell you how many friends - mostly male friends - have told me they can't figure out what my type is.

That's because they're only looking at the guys who've caught my eye. They see height, hair color, career (or lack thereof), race, and I see the twist of a mustache, an eyebrow raised, a glimmer, a sparkle, a swagger. It's how they talk to me and how they look at me. It's what their eyes say and what they don't say.

(And, quite frankly, it's how interested in me they are.)

My romantic history is littered with a motley crew of sexually ambiguous sensitive men, muscle-bound bouncers, chefs, bartenders, blue collar workers, knife-wielding cowboys, bearded Broadway show writers, opera singers, DJs, golfers, contractors, industrial designers, dads, a surprising number of bassists, and a couple of girls.

What do they have in common - the blondes, the brunettes, the bald, the tall, the short, the Italians, the Irish, the naive, the adulterers?

Capacity for intimacy.

These I cannot perceive in a static photograph. These I cannot detect from across the bar. These I cannot ascertain from an online dating profile.

So in a world of "I'll know it when I see it," is the search for the unseen - that which lies beyond the looks - doomed?

I guess I just have to get to know as many people as I can. And know when to move on from them if the chemistry isn't right...

Related reading:
A League of My Own
A Perfect Match
In Praise of the Nice Guy

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