“What’s your type?” I get asked this all the time. Unfortunately for me, Jason Momoa is taken and build-a-man doesn’t exist yet. It’s usually asked after a very predictable lineup of comments and questions genuinely baffled at the fact that “someone like me” is single…whatever that means. Then comes the part where they go through the imaginary rolodex of single men in their minds as if they’re Cupid himself and inevitably ask, “What’s your type?” I don’t know? A living, breathing single man in Southern California outside of the entertainment industry who likes women? You laugh, but you have no idea the percentage of men left in this town after that criteria. If I’m being totally honest, I don’t think I have a real answer. If you lined up all my past relationships suspect style, you wouldn’t have an answer either. It’s a real motley crew. The only common denominator is man.
Now before you go thinking I’m the next Mary Magdalene, Jesus’ “friend” and by “friend” I mean historical street corner lady, maybe keep in mind that I’m more of a “what’s in the box?!” kind of gal. I’m much more interested in a person’s soul and how they make me feel than the results of their crossfit, protein diet, leg day routines. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I’m not interested in someone who is going to grow into their couch one day. That’s not vanity. It’s a conflict of interest. I like to hike and be active. I’m not trying to do couple marathons but I would like to climb mountains together, you know? I’m sporty like that. It’s how I release all of my Greek and Italian aggression combined with the oppression of being raised with three boys. My man should, to some degree, be very into sports. I’m not asking for an American Ninja Warrior but if I ask what his favorite sports teams are, he should have an answer.
Fashion choices, while fun, don’t make or break much for me. It’s like crown-molding. Yeah, it looks nice but if the rest of the apartment is falling apart, who cares? I once dated a guy who would take me to Goodwill every Saturday so he could have his pick of the new T-shirts that came in every week…which he then would wash, iron and hang in his closet in rainbow color order. I dated a guy who wore nothing but golf shirts, okay? I also dated a guy who wanted me to pick out his clothes every morning while he was in the shower. Not the best track record, my point being I’m all over the map. Maybe take it easy on the cargo pants but I don’t care what you wear dude. Anywhere between pajamas and full-on metro is fine with me. Just don’t take longer than I do to get ready and be prepared to tell me which pair of pants look better because I’m in my 30s and have trust issues with mirrors, okay?
Whenever anyone says “he’s really nice” I know that means he’s not the most attractive guy…which is fine. Sometimes personality and humor overcome the canvas. However, anyone who says looks don’t matter is a liar. They do. It’s our first impression of anyone before they even say a word. It’s superficial but it’s honest. It’s that physical attraction. Studies say that we make involuntary decisions in our minds within the first 5 minutes of meeting someone on whether or not we would bed wrestle with said person. I know. I said bed wrestle. I wanted to say bang, but my mom reads this and I wanted to keep it classy. Hi, mom. (I’m waving) So looks matter. They’re certainly not all that matters, but they factor in for sure at the beginning. For me personally, your orthodontic work matters immensely. Don’t come at me all cute and then smile a smile of a thousand crazy teeth of epic proportions. Fix it. Not for me, but for yourself…and your smile and all the people who have to look at you.
Here’s the deal. I don’t know what my type is. I don’t know why I like the guys I do. All I know is how I feel. Trust me, if I had a say in anything, a lot of this would never have happened. There is this unspoken energy between two people you can’t quite grasp or put a name on and, if you let it, it becomes an invincible platform of power. I need a man, enunciation on the word MAN, who can make me laugh on my worst day. Someone who challenges me and thinks I’m beautiful. Someone who appreciates my heart and will be equally careful with it. Someone who believes in me and understands my need to be social and get dressed up every once in awhile. Someone who will eat Sour Patch Kids with me until our mouths are raw and tells me what’s on his mind. I don’t think the perfect man is something you go out and search for but something that finds you when your heart is open to it. It’s a combination of feelings, timing and effort. At the end of the day, I just want to be with someone who is super into me and isn’t afraid for the world to know it…and doesn’t own a cat. If you see him, let him know I’m around. Just make sure you get a good look at his smile first.