I am 30. I am 30 years old; a sentence I didn't think I would ever have the chance to write. 30 seemed like such a far, distant land that from whose bourne no traveler returns. For someone who wishes to imagine stories for a living , I was paralyzed by existential writer's block when it came to my own life. I never was able to picture life in my thirties. Sure, I could picture myself being a fabulous, elderly woman, with silver X-Men Storm hair and wearing fancy kitten heels and a linen daysuit, but everything in between seemed like a tall tale.
But here I am. I am 30. And now that I've arrived, I'm constantly plagued by the idea that I don't want to squander it. The last couple of years have been difficult on me, both mentally and physically. I've had my share of health crises and I'm still learning to cope with the survivor's remorse. I think constantly about the choices I'm making and whether my motivation and morals are steering me away from my desires and needs.
I am 30 years old and I have nothing to show for it. Yes I have a job that I'm currently quite successful at. I use the word "currently" because I have every intention of quitting and becoming a librarian and reading to children with a sultry voice (this is totally going to be a thing). Yet this year alone I am going to 5+ weddings of close friends. Weddings that I'm thrilled that I get to participate in. While most of the sophisticated elite look down upon the institution of government unions, nothing makes me happier. I don't enjoy romantic comedies or most "boy meets girl" histories, I LOVE weddings. I think it's mostly the unlimited booze and the dry salmon, but something about weddings make me giddy. Sure I have to fork over two hundred dollars that was previously my month's food allowance, but I get to wear a fancy dress and dance to my favorite Donna Summers track. There's literally nothing better.
While weddings should make me feel like a failure, they do exactly the opposite. Much like most people crave proximity to greatness to validate their own shortcomings, I look at weddings as single hood absolution. The more married people I know, the more likely I am not a spinster but rather a princess waiting to be pricked by Eros' bow.
Earlier this year, I was able to attend the wedding of two of my best friends, Marc and Phillip. They were married in a lovely, picturesque hilltop in Upstate New York surrounded by their best one hundred family and friends. I wore a lime green sequined dress which was my own version of a mullet. While it was venue appropriate in the front, the dress had absolutely no back and exposed both of my side boobs (I should not that in the hierarchy of cleavage, my preference will always be 1. Underboob 2. Sideboob 3. Nipple 4. Topbobb. Always). I struggled most of the evening to make sure to never raise my arms above waist length for fear of being dubbed the slutty, ethnic friend (we can unpack POC's obligation to represent their entire race on a different essay). That struggle started at cocktail hour, where I was at the bar, getting two drinks (both for me). A lovely middle aged woman, whom we will call Patty, approached me.
"I love your dress"
"Aww thank you so much"
"How do you know the grooms?"
We continued our meet-cute and I discovered that she was a friend of the family of one of the grooms and she has known him since he was a little boy. We talked for about a minute and half and I complimented her on her navy sequin gown. Her face lit up. It was clear she was excited to be acknowledged by a thirty year old with a nipple sliding out of her dress. At the end of our mini-convo I told her I would see her on the dance floor.
I rejoined the rest of my table as we made our way into the main dining room. I had several tequila cocktails (open bar) and took copious photos in the booth. After several lengthy speeches and a first dance, it was finally an opportunity for all of us to dance. I electric slide my way to the dance floor and joined the rest of my peers. About twelve Celine Dion songs in, I noticed Patty at table one. I beckoned her to join me. She was shy at first but I reminded her that she promised me a dance. Reluctantly, Patricia took my hand and we began to jive to the stylings of Robyn and Beyonce. Please hear me when I tell you with the most sincere honesty that Aunt Patty and I were FUCKING UP THE DANCE FLOOR. We were twirling, spinning, dipping and other moves I had only seen on Kenny Ortega choreographed sets. I'm not sure what style of dance we were subscribing to, but it encompassed a tango and rumba and it was FIRE.
On one of the spins, I pulled Auntie P back to me and she held me close and whispered in my ear, "We have to stop". Abruptly and worried I looked down at Patricia, worried that I misjudged a woman of her age and one of my spins possibly fractured a hip. After a furtive glance, it appeared all her bones were in working order. "Why do we have to stop?" I asked her with legitimate concern. Hesitantly she answered "My husband". I am the first to admit that I am lacking of general understanding of most human interactions and on most day I feel more like an android rather than a homo sapient, but what her husband had to do with our bachata was perplexing. "What?" was all I could muster from my fog of Patron and confusion.
" My husband is upset".
I look up at the rest of table one, and there lies the man that I can only assume is Mr. Patricia. He had his arms crossed, legs shaking and actual steam coming out of his nostrils. He was shaking his head in familiar admonishment and it took me several minutes to realize that his anger was directed his Patty's dancing with me. Usually my immediate response is RACISM; a blanket answer that usually answer every injustice, whether veiled or not. However, this time racism felt incongruous, as if something larger was at play. Sensing my confusion, Aunt Patty kissed my cheek and leaned close into my ear and whispered "Thank you for a wonderful night" and then disappeared into the darkness of the night with her husband.
I returned to my table (eleven) with tired feet and a lack of understanding. Why would a man be upset about his wife dancing with another woman? And then clarity slapped me in the face: Aunt Patty was on the down-low. Now for those that are uninitiated in the terminology that once appeared on the Oprah Winfrey show, "down-low" refers to someone who is hiding their true sexual desires from their partners, whether that be a certain fetish or certain need. Usually it refers to someone hiding that they are actually homosexual for their very heterosexual-partner. The look on Patty's husband's face wasn't disgust but rather shame that Patricia would disrespect him to his face--- again. This wasn't the first time that she's pulled this stunt. My imagination began to run wild. Did P leave the family when the boys were in middle school to be with her lesbian partner and follow Lilith Fair across the country? Did she embark on a Cherry Jones book tour and send her sons postcards from her travels while her husband was forced to tell the boys a lie about mommy going to self help conference? Did she come back to the family when he threatened to file for full custody and keep her progeny away from her? All of these seemed like real possibilities.
I got back on my gold stilettos and marched over to table one. I was prepared to tell Patty that she didn't have to live a lie anymore. Yes I may not be a lesbian, contrary to my clothes, my looks, and my actions, but I knew one thing: life is short. Patricia deserved happiness and if being on a nudist colony with a woman that preferred to be called Jon was the key to her joy, I was going to encourage her to get it. We only get one life and we are never rewarded for wasting it. But when I got to table one, there was no sight of Patty nor her husband. I searched everywhere for her on the limited property but I never saw her. She wasn't on the shuttle bus that night. She wasn't at the hotel when we arrived. I was beginning to think I imagined her.
What I do find myself imagining is that Patty's husband gripped her arm and ushered her out of the wedding out of embarrassment. He pulls Patty to the car and gives her an earful and Patty pulls a full Nicole Kidman a la BIG LITTLE LIES and tells him off. She vows to live her life for herself and calls an uber home. Yes it's an expensive uber but she will charge it to his card. She's going to start her life, finally at fifty seven years old. It might be a late start but it's still a start. And I had something to do with it. Me and my sideboob changed a life. That's all the motivation I need to live my thirties to fullest and that begins with burning my bras.
Monday, July 30, 2018
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Why I Like Boys with Glasses
I like to consider myself an equal opportunity
employer when it comes to interviewing romantic others. I don’t have a
particular preference for a certain race or tribe. I think that variety is the
spice of life. Gosh, that’s a horrible saying. It implies that life is some
sort of bland soup filled with celery. Gross. Vanity also doesn’t play a huge
factor in someone’s attractiveness for me. I typically like raven haired boys,
but give me a redhead or a swagged out blonde and I’m likely to jump ship. The
only thing that I tend to be a stickler for is height, because my dominating
matriarch instilled in my head that I should never date a short boy. She
equated short men to be kin to killers of babies. Now while it’s strange to
believe, her indoctrination has settled somewhere deep in my psyche that even
if I find someone to be attractive sitting down, that appeal is soon dissipates
when they stand up and can’t pass my pelvis (Although Peter Dinklage, see this
post, does have a certain something that makes him impervious to the
aforementioned rule). Regardless if the man is the hottest man on earth or the
dorkiest doofus in Brooklyn, the one thing that makes me weak in the knees is a
stud with spectacles.
Queer? Absolutely. I completely
acknowledge this. Where did this attraction arise from? Where else, but my
mother. As a little girl, my mother prepared me for the world of dating by
schooling me on what to look for in a man. Now while my mother may not be an
expert in courting, because she’s only dated one man in her entire life, she is
still with that one man (My parents have been together for over 30 years). Her
requirements were both a man of admirable height (My Dad’s a respectable 6’2)
and a man with a superior IQ (My Dad is one of the smartest people I know.
Fluent in several languages and can understand any obscure concept. Okay, it
sounds like a bragging. I am). As long as my romantic partner fulfills those
two requisites, I should be happy, according to mi madre.
I know some of you reading this will find it hard to believe. Why should intellect and height have anything to do with the success of a union. Astrology probably should be more likely to provide ideal outcomes. I would agree with you, but after spending my entire life living in New York City, where the divorce rates are higher than the heels, I tend to seek out Mama Killa instead of outside sources.
So my entire youth was spent looking longingly at lanky boys reading during recess, hoping that they would soon outgrow me. I have never been attracted to the high school jock, captain of the football team. Give me a Mathlete any day and I’ll purr like a brand new beemer. Since I was a science geek (and still am) and I began to see a distinct correlation between boys with glasses and their intelligence. They seem to go hand in hand. Is it true that boys with glasses tend to be smarter than boys without? No, I can’t prove this. But boys who choose to wear glasses and opposed to boys who prefer contacts, want to appear smarter, more cerebral. So if it’s important to a man to appear smart, then he will start to act on that need and seek out ways to make himself smarter. It’s a beautiful lie.
Am I attracted to every boy with glasses? No. There are still other factors at play. But it is a known fact that if I see a man without glasses and I think he’s “okay looking”, the same man can pass me ten minutes later, wearing glasses, and I’ll shout “Who is that hot tamale?” It’s a game changer. Isn’t that sad?
I don’t care if you’re judging me. I think there are worse things to be in love with, such as bad boys, men with anger issues, and guys with motorcycles. Leave me be with my illogical ways and a hottie with some horn-rimmed specs.
I know some of you reading this will find it hard to believe. Why should intellect and height have anything to do with the success of a union. Astrology probably should be more likely to provide ideal outcomes. I would agree with you, but after spending my entire life living in New York City, where the divorce rates are higher than the heels, I tend to seek out Mama Killa instead of outside sources.
So my entire youth was spent looking longingly at lanky boys reading during recess, hoping that they would soon outgrow me. I have never been attracted to the high school jock, captain of the football team. Give me a Mathlete any day and I’ll purr like a brand new beemer. Since I was a science geek (and still am) and I began to see a distinct correlation between boys with glasses and their intelligence. They seem to go hand in hand. Is it true that boys with glasses tend to be smarter than boys without? No, I can’t prove this. But boys who choose to wear glasses and opposed to boys who prefer contacts, want to appear smarter, more cerebral. So if it’s important to a man to appear smart, then he will start to act on that need and seek out ways to make himself smarter. It’s a beautiful lie.
Am I attracted to every boy with glasses? No. There are still other factors at play. But it is a known fact that if I see a man without glasses and I think he’s “okay looking”, the same man can pass me ten minutes later, wearing glasses, and I’ll shout “Who is that hot tamale?” It’s a game changer. Isn’t that sad?
I don’t care if you’re judging me. I think there are worse things to be in love with, such as bad boys, men with anger issues, and guys with motorcycles. Leave me be with my illogical ways and a hottie with some horn-rimmed specs.
Friday, February 3, 2012
The Problem with Saying Never
I like to think that I know myself pretty well. I'm consider myself introspective and I don't lie to myself about my wants, needs and desires. I know what my strengths are and I'm acknowledge my weaknesses. I'm not incredibly sensitive that I can't take criticism, but I have a stubbornness that is sometimes without merit. With that being said, after 23 (almost 24) years of life and introspection, I've developed certain rules that I find necessary for my survival.
There are preferences for every avenue of my life, including possible romantic entanglements. Now, I've said before that I'm an equal opportunity employer when it comes to racial and ethnic preferences, but I do have some absolute "NOs" in my little black book. In order of importance, they are:
Height. I don't date short dudes. I'm 5'8 and I've been indoctrinated by society, pop culture, and chiefly, my mother to believe that it is not okay to date a man shorter than me. My preference is for gentlemen who are 6 foot and upwards (6'2 being the gold standard). I wear heels. I like heels. I like being tall. In a perfect world, I'd have two more inches added to my legs, so I don't need a man that's going to be insecure about our height difference. Or my mother scolding me for the rest of eternity.
Age. It's not that I hate younger guys, it's just that I have a preference for older ones. I'm an old soul and I'm not looking for a youthful spirit to uplift me. I'd rather have an older man who can show me and teach me things. I want to be intellectually stimulated by my partner and although I do believe that a younger gent could accomplish that, he couldn't do that without me possessing resentment towards him for being smarter than me at a younger age. Tough Shit Young'in.
Occupation. I don't particularly care what career path my boo takes, as long as he's passionate about his work. Sure, there are some positions that I consider ideal, architect and professor, but I'm not a stickler about it. What I want to make sure is that I never get involved with a fighter. I don't want to date the next Mike Tyson or Pretty Boy Floyd. I have no interest in watching my significant other get the shit pounded out of him, or have him send someone to the hospital because of his brutishness. I don't find it sexy when guys fight in a ring. Now, if he's defending my honor, then it's a different story, an erotic story. But mindless fighting is a turn off. I don't have the emotional makeup to watch on the sidelines and cheer my BF. The only options are that I start crying helplessly, or I feel an intense need to get in the ring and help my boo out. I'm ride or die bitches.
Hair. I hate it, absolutely HATE it, when boys have that Bieber haircut. Now I know that the style existed pre-Justin, but I can't tolerate it. It's so stupid. I don't want my boyfriend to have bangs and constantly shake his head to get his hair out of his eyes. I want my man to look like a man and not a pre-pubescent girl, no matter how attractive that girl may be. This is last on the list, even though it's the thing I hate the most, because it can be easily remedied.
Now, may I ask you, why am I crushing on a guy who possess all of theses NOs? Fuck My Life.
There are preferences for every avenue of my life, including possible romantic entanglements. Now, I've said before that I'm an equal opportunity employer when it comes to racial and ethnic preferences, but I do have some absolute "NOs" in my little black book. In order of importance, they are:
Height. I don't date short dudes. I'm 5'8 and I've been indoctrinated by society, pop culture, and chiefly, my mother to believe that it is not okay to date a man shorter than me. My preference is for gentlemen who are 6 foot and upwards (6'2 being the gold standard). I wear heels. I like heels. I like being tall. In a perfect world, I'd have two more inches added to my legs, so I don't need a man that's going to be insecure about our height difference. Or my mother scolding me for the rest of eternity.
Age. It's not that I hate younger guys, it's just that I have a preference for older ones. I'm an old soul and I'm not looking for a youthful spirit to uplift me. I'd rather have an older man who can show me and teach me things. I want to be intellectually stimulated by my partner and although I do believe that a younger gent could accomplish that, he couldn't do that without me possessing resentment towards him for being smarter than me at a younger age. Tough Shit Young'in.
Occupation. I don't particularly care what career path my boo takes, as long as he's passionate about his work. Sure, there are some positions that I consider ideal, architect and professor, but I'm not a stickler about it. What I want to make sure is that I never get involved with a fighter. I don't want to date the next Mike Tyson or Pretty Boy Floyd. I have no interest in watching my significant other get the shit pounded out of him, or have him send someone to the hospital because of his brutishness. I don't find it sexy when guys fight in a ring. Now, if he's defending my honor, then it's a different story, an erotic story. But mindless fighting is a turn off. I don't have the emotional makeup to watch on the sidelines and cheer my BF. The only options are that I start crying helplessly, or I feel an intense need to get in the ring and help my boo out. I'm ride or die bitches.
Hair. I hate it, absolutely HATE it, when boys have that Bieber haircut. Now I know that the style existed pre-Justin, but I can't tolerate it. It's so stupid. I don't want my boyfriend to have bangs and constantly shake his head to get his hair out of his eyes. I want my man to look like a man and not a pre-pubescent girl, no matter how attractive that girl may be. This is last on the list, even though it's the thing I hate the most, because it can be easily remedied.
Now, may I ask you, why am I crushing on a guy who possess all of theses NOs? Fuck My Life.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Where has my day gone?
I went to dinner on Monday with some besties and it was your typical "What's going on in your life?" conversation. But it seems that the only thing that's going on in our lives is our current/current lack of a relationship. That's all we talked about. One of us just made it official with her latest beau, the other is starting again with an ex, and one of them just found out that her boo has a girlfriend. Scandalous, I know. Am I upset at the conversational climate of the hour? No. However, I do feel that we're setting ourselves up for failure. If all we can think of is the opposite sex, how do we get over a past lover? When you break up with someone, the last thing you want to do is constantly think about them. Yet that always seems to be what happens. You end up actively thinking about not actively thinking about them. It might be true that the only cure for an old love is a new one; but couldn't we change that.
I have a new crush and I'm all giddy about it. It's funny because I don't necessarily have a type. My main goals are someone smart and tall (if he's got four eyes that's a bonus. A sexy bonus), but my new crush is totally not my typical. I'm sure he's smart and all that good shit, but really he's just really hot and he's got an accent. Swoon (also I should note that I don't find any accent particularly attractive, but I find that people who are good-looking with an accent, happen to be more attractive than those without. It's very similar to my glasses obsession). I've now spent the first half of my day, counting the minutes until I get to see him. And when he does arrive, I'm focusing on my posture and making sure I have nothing in my teeth. How did I get so boy crazy? What did I do with my day before he entered my thoughts?
A couple of weeks ago, Melissa posted on her status "there's got to be more than drinking". Is there? All my recreational activities center around an alcoholic beverage. Meeting up with long lost friends? Unlimited mimosa brunch. Need to unwind after a horrible work week? Happy hour in midtown. Epic birthday party? Nightclub with bottle service. And why the need for drinks? I think it's because we are perusing the single (and not so single) scene. We're the generation of multi-taskers and in this day and age, you need to be committed to finding a partner. It's not something you can take lightly . There aren't men flocking at your feet that fulfill all nine of your marriage requirements. We also aren't the generation that settles (i.e. Occupy Wall Street), so that guy that comes along and is gorgeous, funny, smart, loves his mom, but happens to be 5'6, he's not cutting it. I just want to know when did we become so boy-obsessed?
After you've found "the one", what happens to all that energy? Do you lose it all or do you just concentrate on your new found love? Is that even possible? I've heard that you the passion dies with older couples (and by older, I mean after the first two years of marriage, or the arrival of children). Maybe that's where your energy turns; ensuring that the lust and love is still present. I would much rather spend my time dancing and drinking all night in the pursuit of the mythical perfect man, that try every day for the rest of my life to make my marriage work. It sounds hard. It sounds like work.
I'm sure there are good things that come with marriage, like sense of security, finding your soul mate and all that shit. I'm down for that. I just want to know that regardless of my relationship status, I'll be able to enjoy my life. I also don't want to be the "single" friend, while all my friends are married and having babies. That means I'll have to get new friends and they're hard to break in.
I have a new crush and I'm all giddy about it. It's funny because I don't necessarily have a type. My main goals are someone smart and tall (if he's got four eyes that's a bonus. A sexy bonus), but my new crush is totally not my typical. I'm sure he's smart and all that good shit, but really he's just really hot and he's got an accent. Swoon (also I should note that I don't find any accent particularly attractive, but I find that people who are good-looking with an accent, happen to be more attractive than those without. It's very similar to my glasses obsession). I've now spent the first half of my day, counting the minutes until I get to see him. And when he does arrive, I'm focusing on my posture and making sure I have nothing in my teeth. How did I get so boy crazy? What did I do with my day before he entered my thoughts?
A couple of weeks ago, Melissa posted on her status "there's got to be more than drinking". Is there? All my recreational activities center around an alcoholic beverage. Meeting up with long lost friends? Unlimited mimosa brunch. Need to unwind after a horrible work week? Happy hour in midtown. Epic birthday party? Nightclub with bottle service. And why the need for drinks? I think it's because we are perusing the single (and not so single) scene. We're the generation of multi-taskers and in this day and age, you need to be committed to finding a partner. It's not something you can take lightly . There aren't men flocking at your feet that fulfill all nine of your marriage requirements. We also aren't the generation that settles (i.e. Occupy Wall Street), so that guy that comes along and is gorgeous, funny, smart, loves his mom, but happens to be 5'6, he's not cutting it. I just want to know when did we become so boy-obsessed?
After you've found "the one", what happens to all that energy? Do you lose it all or do you just concentrate on your new found love? Is that even possible? I've heard that you the passion dies with older couples (and by older, I mean after the first two years of marriage, or the arrival of children). Maybe that's where your energy turns; ensuring that the lust and love is still present. I would much rather spend my time dancing and drinking all night in the pursuit of the mythical perfect man, that try every day for the rest of my life to make my marriage work. It sounds hard. It sounds like work.
I'm sure there are good things that come with marriage, like sense of security, finding your soul mate and all that shit. I'm down for that. I just want to know that regardless of my relationship status, I'll be able to enjoy my life. I also don't want to be the "single" friend, while all my friends are married and having babies. That means I'll have to get new friends and they're hard to break in.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
When I Grow Up
You ever have an image of what life is going to be like when you're a grown up? I always thought that I would be a grown up when I graduated college; what a lie that was. Even though I'm a hot mess now, here's a list of things I think adulthood is like.
1. I'm going to pay bills on time and actually have a savings.
2. I'll have folders and desk drawers dedicated to things like, bills, mortgages, budget, supplies. Shit like that.
3. My house will always be clean, with fresh flowers that are delivered weekly. Somehow I can't seem to keep my bedroom clean now, but when I grow up, the bed will always be made.
4. Dinner parties will be hosted and it will only take me 2 hours to prepare, and my guests will all arrive on time.
5. I will have ample time in my schedule for leisurely activities such as walking my dog, crocheting, making ice cream from scratch, gardening, volunteering at the old folks home.
6. All my clothes will be tailored and dry cleaned. I won't have to search through my hamper for the proper bra for a certain outfit.
7. I will have a planner.
8. I would never eat take out.
9. I will only wear heels.
10. I'd be happy.
1. I'm going to pay bills on time and actually have a savings.
2. I'll have folders and desk drawers dedicated to things like, bills, mortgages, budget, supplies. Shit like that.
3. My house will always be clean, with fresh flowers that are delivered weekly. Somehow I can't seem to keep my bedroom clean now, but when I grow up, the bed will always be made.
4. Dinner parties will be hosted and it will only take me 2 hours to prepare, and my guests will all arrive on time.
5. I will have ample time in my schedule for leisurely activities such as walking my dog, crocheting, making ice cream from scratch, gardening, volunteering at the old folks home.
6. All my clothes will be tailored and dry cleaned. I won't have to search through my hamper for the proper bra for a certain outfit.
7. I will have a planner.
8. I would never eat take out.
9. I will only wear heels.
10. I'd be happy.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
The Giant Philosopher
A couple months ago, I sent my friends an article entitled "You Should Date an Illiterate Girl". It's a sarcastic approach on the pitfalls of dating a woman without an iota of intellect or a personality. Similarly, John Waters has a famous quote about bedding the opposite sex: “If you go home with somebody, and they don't have books, don't fuck 'em!” Those are my sentiments exactly. When people list their criterion for their future partner, they fail to include anything about what makes that person tick. Typically we hear things about circumstantial choices, such as height, coloring, career, and finances. I definitely believe that these are things that should be included on "the list", but their placement on my said list may shock you.
I care very little for a man's ethnic, racial, or tribe affiliation. I'm an equal opportunity employer when it comes to that issue. Growing up in NYC, I was always very intrigued to learn about one's culture, and I discovered that instead of being very different, we're all more the same. Now, I'm not about to break out into a "We Are The World" rendition, but it should be noted that ethnic variety is the spice of life.
Nor does someone's finances concern me much. I actually shy away from men that are rich. I believe there are only two types of rich men: the ones that were born rich and the new-money rich. People that were born rich and inherited their careers have no concept of how life is outside of the pillars of wealth. That kind of ignorance is hard for me to overlook. You can't teach compassion. On the flip side, those who have achieved success by their own merits, have a hunger and ambition that I find sexy, but in the long run, I know that it won't work. I'm super ambitious and hungry and I know the personality type that comes with it. Fights with no end and a lack of an ability to apologize does not bode well for a long-term relationship.
What is important to me is intelligence. If I was wart-nosed witch, stirring my ideal-mate brew, a giant portion would be "acumen of owl" or whatever happens to be the smartest jungle animal. I want someone to stimulate me cerebrally and have great conversations with them. I don't think I can do that with a scarecrow (please tell me that you get the Wizard of Oz reference). I also want to laugh for the majority of my life and while the pratfalls of Chris Farley may be slightly amusing, I prefer the political stylings of a Stephen Colbert. Plus Louis C.K. but I just love a good, dirty dick joke.
When youth has been dried from your bones and the crow's feet have made a playground out of your face, you're not going to care whether you married a schoolteacher or golf pro. You'll be more concerned that he you can stand to be in the same room as him and that he makes you happy. And that he's tall. Sorry, I'm just a tad bit vain. I can't be walking around with a hobbit. I want a giant philosopher.
I care very little for a man's ethnic, racial, or tribe affiliation. I'm an equal opportunity employer when it comes to that issue. Growing up in NYC, I was always very intrigued to learn about one's culture, and I discovered that instead of being very different, we're all more the same. Now, I'm not about to break out into a "We Are The World" rendition, but it should be noted that ethnic variety is the spice of life.
Nor does someone's finances concern me much. I actually shy away from men that are rich. I believe there are only two types of rich men: the ones that were born rich and the new-money rich. People that were born rich and inherited their careers have no concept of how life is outside of the pillars of wealth. That kind of ignorance is hard for me to overlook. You can't teach compassion. On the flip side, those who have achieved success by their own merits, have a hunger and ambition that I find sexy, but in the long run, I know that it won't work. I'm super ambitious and hungry and I know the personality type that comes with it. Fights with no end and a lack of an ability to apologize does not bode well for a long-term relationship.
What is important to me is intelligence. If I was wart-nosed witch, stirring my ideal-mate brew, a giant portion would be "acumen of owl" or whatever happens to be the smartest jungle animal. I want someone to stimulate me cerebrally and have great conversations with them. I don't think I can do that with a scarecrow (please tell me that you get the Wizard of Oz reference). I also want to laugh for the majority of my life and while the pratfalls of Chris Farley may be slightly amusing, I prefer the political stylings of a Stephen Colbert. Plus Louis C.K. but I just love a good, dirty dick joke.
When youth has been dried from your bones and the crow's feet have made a playground out of your face, you're not going to care whether you married a schoolteacher or golf pro. You'll be more concerned that he you can stand to be in the same room as him and that he makes you happy. And that he's tall. Sorry, I'm just a tad bit vain. I can't be walking around with a hobbit. I want a giant philosopher.
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