In the 2:30 mass exodus from BioSci a few weeks ago, I caught a waft of woodsy, piney cologne-the kind Abercrombie advertises on rippling male models in flannel boxers and Santa hats. I watched as the source of the smell sauntered by-tall, shaggy light brown hair, blue eyes. He pulled open the door and held it for my friend Leslie and myself, smiling slightly and drawling into his cell phone.
I waited until he was out of earshot before turning to Les. "Cuu-utte," I said.
She lowered her Dior sunglasses, peeping at him as he walked down Science Drive. "Eh," she huffed dismissively. "Too nice."
Incredulous, I stammered to defend both Mr. Nice and my taste. I could have teased her about her own preferences. I could have summarized her history of collegiate romance with words like "conceited athletes," "jerks," and "don't know basic American geography." I could've dusted off that phrase you hear every Sunday morning in Alpine or the Marketplace: "But honey, ugh, you could do so much better."
Instead, I held my tongue-I knew exactly how she would respond.
First, she would have laughed. "So?" she would have said. And then: "What's your point?"
There's the rub-what is my point?
I like "nice." I date "nice." To me, witty sarcasm, niceness and blue eyes are the Three Pillars Of Date-ability-flexible on the blue eyes if your name is Seth Cohen. But liking innocuous, sweater-clad English majors doesn't give me any sort of high ground from which to criticize others-even if I'm iffy on whether "badasses/bitchez only" are a legitimate dating criterion. Please. I don't want to be the loathed vegetarian who tries to indoctrinate her carnivorous friends.
But what does it mean to have a type? Sure, it's a way to digest and compartmentalize the available masses we see around us. Some guys just like "blonde Pi Phis- yeah, blonde ones." Some girls just like "those impish Wayne Manor boys." A lot of us have a "Must Be At Least THIS Tall (or THIS Much Shorter Than Me) In Order To Enjoy This Ride" sign in front of us.
My friend Kristen, always appreciated for her candor, says it's an instantly noticeable thing. "I don't care if they're blind, deaf or dumb," she joked. "They'd just better have big shoulders and be athletic."
Getting past the shallower determinants, factors like political ideology, religious affiliation and race also play a role. "I like skinny white guys," a writer friend told me. "But whenever I like a guy, I first have to think to myself, 'Okay, now, would he date an Asian girl?'"
"I go through the same thing," a junior said. "I mean, I've talked to white guys here who say they wouldn't really want to be with black girls. But now that I'm more into black guys, you run into problems-a third of them are married, a third are in jail and the other third cheat."
Yeoow.
But she brings up a point. What if no one fits your parameters? And if or when there isn't anyone, does having a type just become a crutch to explain your single-ness?
Or perhaps it is a means of self-preservation-a way of defining whom you're waiting for, because until you find him or her, you're entirely justified in drifting from random to random. You've got an ideal that you're actively seeking, young grasshopper, so immerse yourself in the exploratory hookup culture.
An aside: If, instead of "The Hookup Culture Phenomenon (dun dun dunnnn)," we called it "The Fastest Way To Get HIV/AIDS And Die," would sleeping around in droves still be denier cri?
Cough-use-a-condom-cough.
Sorry, fall allergies.
Digressions aside, I ended my search for answers about type with Lauren, currently in a relationship. "My type is my boyfriend," she said, squashed down into the folds of a BC leather couch. "He's pretty much perfect-I love him, and he loves me."
That's it? Type is an illusory sham-it's really all about loving each other?
Well. Maybe. Perhaps it doesn't matter what you envision your type to be. If you base it on physicality, or on intellect, or even on table manners (seriously, it says a lot about a person), it comes down to basic human interaction-how well you get along with someone else. I could say that John Cusack circa Say Anything is my ideal, but if I meet him and hate him, what's the point? Besides being able to say that I date John Cusack, I mean?
To take creative license with some Blessid Union of Souls lyrics (huh?), find a person who likes you for you-not because you look like Tyson Beckford. But if you do look like Tyson Beckford-um, yeah, call me.
Sarah Ball is a Trinity sophomore and editorial page managing editor for The Chronicle. Her column usually runs every Thursday.
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