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Friday, June 10, 2005

*my* type

I'm going to take a random detour from politics, politics, and more politics -- mostly because the entire world is distracted by the Jackson trial right now, and it's been a slow newsweek other than the endless repeating of what'll happen to everyone within a hundred mile radius of Neverland following the verdict. When I the media showed me an extended series of pictures of the several different cells set up for the various possible outcomes of the trial, I decided enough was enough. Perusing unfurling's blog today (another blog I've seriously neglected, because its non-workplace safe-ness makes it non-conducive to reading during business hours, the time when I do most of my blog surfing and posting), I stumbled upon an older post of unfurling's in which he talks about his type:

I've never been attracted to bland women. Those without opinions, or those with opinions they keep to themselves. Actually, it's worse than that: I'm only attracted to very difficult, very high maintenance women.
It's a strange bit of synchronicity that I was just talking to Scarecrow about this the other day, during our marathon night, day, and night of board games. At some point, I started talking about my type -- and I suddenly realized how much my type had shifted over the short five and a half years since I left high school. Jenn-at-sixteen was the pudgy, shy, four-eyed, hopeless romantic who hid behind her long bangs, had very few friends, and felt sweet, Shakesperean butterflies at the guy she admired from a distance. She romanticized about long walks on the beach, hand-in-hand with a sweet, soft-spoken endearing man. What kind of man was he -- athletic? Maybe. Intellectual? Totally. The guy I could take home to mom? The primary criterion. I still remember sitting in the M4 hallway (prep school in Canada -- that would be grade 11 in a thirteen grades education system), feeling my stomach drop and losing my breath as I watched this guy, C.W., leaning against his locker with his legs splayed out in front of him, reading some book or writing in some journal. He had dirty blonde hair which he always kept purposefully somewhat messy, a runner's build (he was one of those marathon runners who ran from his home in the Toronto suburbs an hour and a half to school one weekend because he was bored), freckles, and was about four foot nine (yes, practically a leprechaun). I remember he wore khakis and brown Tims, and a plaid shirt. I remember the boots and pants especially because this guy was totally out of my league: and I only dared glance up at him, my heart pounding my chest from between the rungs of the bench that separated us -- and from my vantage point, that was all I could see. And even the untied laces were enough to give me heart palpatations. In six years, I don't think I ever spoke to C.W. once. He did sit next to me in math. I didn't do so well that year. Prior to that longstanding, and inexplicable crush was one on C.C., your stereotypical model minority Asian boy. Also with the windswept hair, the thin and graceful arms and fingers. He was a virtuoso at the piano and the violin. That was short-lived, because C.C. was also a huge fat-phobic fuck. And of course, the requisite celebrity who picks your crush-cherry -- the guy or girl who suddenly makes you realize that they really don't all have cooties. My guy was Dean Cain: yes, I know he's a bad ass now. But I fell for Dean back when he was Clark Kent on Lois & Clark, the New Adventures of Superman; I didn't like him as much as the cocky, outspoken Superman, but mild-mannered Clark? Hell yeah. To this day, I go home to this massive poster on my bathroom door of his incredible pecs and limpid brown eyes. You'd've thought therefore that my first real relationship might be with a guy who somehow fit that mold of unassuming artsy. And you'd be right. Prior to electroman, I dated a boy, A.M., a year or two younger than me and a sweetheart. We were good friends and... somehow... became an item. I say somehow because I don't think I ever gave explicit consensus for the relationship -- suddenly we were holding hands and going to movies together, all the while my girlfriends were giggling between their fingers. It took a month before I realized I was dating the guy -- but there was something missing. I felt like I was taking care of him, being his pillar of support while he underwent the transition to some sort of military-esque boarding school. There was nothing adventurous about it -- I sometimes miss A.M. because we truly talked well together. But when he held my hand, it felt sweaty, like he was so desperate for me to be there for him... I didn't want that. It didn't feel equal. It took me a long time to realize that as much as I was crushing on these guys who were the purest choirboys who ever lived (or at least from my vantage point, turns out that C.W. hid quite the rebellious edge in that diminuitive body), I could no longer be sure if I was going for the guy I wanted or the guy I thought I should be wanting. The girl raised on Disney is going to think the only successful relationship is going to be with Prince Charming. Was it the only way that the little Disney girl, already insecure about her feminity, general coolness, and attractiveness, could feel like a princess? Jenn-at-seventeen went to Cornell, where, irony of ironies, she went to a ballroom dance class at Orientation and found herself face to face with electroman. About a foot taller than anyone she had ever met before (seriously!) he later said she really looked like a princess in her white CK tanktop and short shorts. See the funny thing is that she fell for him at once as well, even though he was completely not what her type had ever been up until that point. Let's face it, electroman's a badass, and he eats choirboys for breakfast between bites of his NYC bagels. Electroman's still my one-and-only, but I feel like a lot of who I am now is because of his presence in my life and during the development and maturity of my sexuality. My idle celebrity crushes speak volumes: I would've once been a Riley Finn girl, now I'm all about Spike. Hayden Christensen as evil, Episode III Anakin does it for me, Ewan McGregor as goodie-two-shoes Obi-Wan not so much. Other celebs include J. August Richards, the "intellectual thug" (at least through the eyes of whiter-than-white Joss Whedon) that was Gunn on Angel, and Dean Winters of Oz fame. Apparently, my type is now semi-tall, thin, somewhat athletic badasses with attitude and a serious edge. ... For those of you who know electroman, that sound familiar? It's kind of scary if you think about it that way -- like the person I'm so proud of wasn't a product of me or my natural evolution, but shaped by the people I became close to. A psychologist would have a field day associating my de-virginizing at the hands (and other body parts) of electroman with my current sexual appetite. Did I fall for electroman because he was my type or is my type my type because of electroman? Or maybe it goes further back than electroman -- my father, too, was emotionally distant, aggressive, prone to sudden bouts of emotion (both good and bad) and overbearing. As I read unfurling's blog, I wondered if his pattern of going for high-maintenance girls might be because of an early sexual experience that linked his sexuality to a certain personality trait of his partner, and all subsequent liasons have been in search of that one, first burst of intimacy. Six years later, Jenn-at-nearly-twenty-three reflects on her type and it's almost like it was a completely other person who fell for C.W. and C.C.. If I met them now, they might still be out of my league, but I'd also be way out of their's. My bangs have been cut, my glasses replaced with contacts, and I'm no longer concerned with wearing short skirts, low-cut shirts and heels to school in an effort to look more girly. My SailorMoon trading cards and Disney DVDs have been replaced with the New York Times, a megaphone and a veritable potpourri of opinions I'm not afraid to shout at the top of my lungs (... okay, not really... but it makes for a nice metaphor). Bottom line, my type is this: while moonlit strolls are still great, I want passion in my relationship -- someone who can meet my pig-headedness face on and not flinch. I want a guy who makes me feel alive, and even a little bit dangerous, who makes me laugh and cry with equal intensity, but ultimately who reminds me that life is an adventure you only get one chance to live. And they all said I was going to be the first one to get married... (Incidentally, if you went to UTS when I was there, and didn't speak to me a lot -- that's pretty much everyone -- you probably recognize the guys I'm talking about. I so know this post is coming back to bite me in the ass.)

2 Comments:

Blogger Karlos said...

Hey, I thought *I* was your type!

6/13/2005 11:41:00 AM  
Anonymous shelly said...

eh, my type is tall blonde stoners who play sports.... hey, wait a minute.... !!! types, shmypes. :)

6/13/2005 09:22:00 PM  

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