on the Perfect Woman
Whenever asked to describe my “type,” I’ve never listed physical attributes. It’s odd for someone consistently described as a solid Midwest 6 to respond with some shit like, “Man, she needs to be really pretty and in great shape.”
Instead, I describe my ideal personality trait: I like ‘em serious. Like, super-serious. Impassive. Apathetic. When I meet someone who rolls her eyes at my jokes, whose friends tell her to “lighten up,” and “have fun,” I instinctively bring out the A-1 material and begin shooting my shot. You show me a woman who has yet to form smile lines and I’ll show you my future wife.
Maybe it’s the chase. Maybe I’m trying to make up for something in my past. Who knows. Connie, my therapist, used to ask tons of questions about my dating life (or lack thereof for a while there). I hated talking about it. The trick is to answer what you think your therapist wants to hear. Provide a glimpse of truth, ramble for a bit, and avoid answering the question altogether. Thing is, Connie was pretty good at seeing right through that, but since she was charging me $325 per session, we never really got to the bottom of it. Which I’m fine with. Like @caseyjsalengo said, some things you gotta keep buried, boys.