Not once does she take time to wonder about his disposition, his attitude, his sensitivity, compatibility, his maturity, nor his sense of identity. All she wants to know is that he looks and smells like a Ralph Lauren catalogue commercial that attends Sunday mass and told her what a pretty thang she is. Sounds like treachery to us.
And in fact the author realizes as much when she comments:
My god. If I’d latched onto the partner I wanted when I was 22, I’d be divorced by now and I’d probably still have those ill-advised blonde highlights and two kids with Irish-Catholic names.
So what does she do instead? She comes up with a new list, with some new surprise kinks that still in this author’s opinion fail to take into consideration the type of male that best comes close to complementing her and of the inherent identity of such males.
Her new list as it appears:
It was so confusing to read that, considering what I wanted then and what I’ve ended up looking for now- a man who reads books and can discuss liberal politics without being a big dick about it. A man who makes fun of me who doesn’t get all butthurt when I respond in kind. An atheist who doesn’t wear pants that are too short or get legitimately depressed after NFL games (college games: fine.). Someone who occasionally will take me somewhere that requires me to wear a nice dress. Someone who likes museums and who is sexually experienced enough that I don’t have to be all coachy about it.
At least this time she alludes to a man who is experienced, but only in the sexual department. Which we wonder infers, as long as he looks like a Calvin Klein model and knows how to flick that tongue in the most appropriate places (my dear, did I just say that?) she’ll be happy this time- never mind about his overall maturity and development of his own identity. But then again, who cares about identity, when identity for so many of you women means you have a boyfriend who now make your collective identity?
Her article managed to eke out 500 comments, impressive stuff, but out of all the comments, few of them really impressed me, (which should be disconcerting ladies) save for these two:
‘I used to have a thing for guitar-plunkin androgynes who weighed less than