When you look at a painting by Salvador Dali where he’s got a pocket watch melted over a tree branch or a lion jumping out of a fish jumping out of a pomegranate, you’ve got to just shake your head and wonder “What the hell happened there? Did I miss something?”
This is exactly how I feel after I go out with a Surrealist. (Yep, I’ve discovered my third “type” and yep, I’m calling this type the Surrealist.) On one hand I’m all, “Ooh! Pretty colors! And how did he get that watch to melt over that branch anyway? How?” One the other hand I realize that it’s just an illusion; watches don’t melt, lions don’t spring from pomegranates and if a man seems too good to be true, he probably is.
I’ve only gone out with a few Surrealists: Date #5 and My One O’Clock. (It occurs to me that The Civilian might be something of a Surrealist as well but at this point, it’s too soon to tell.) When it comes to players—I mean “Surrealists”— I can usually tell that they’ve got “bad news” written all over them, in permanent ink. But every once in a while, I get swept up in their smiles and straight white teeth (is it just me or do they always have nice teeth?) and before you know it, I’ve spent two weeks waiting by the phone wondering if I’ve lost my mind because didn’t YOU ask ME out? Didn’t YOU buy ME a drink? Didn’t YOU kiss ME and tell me you had a LOVELY time and that you’d see me again SOON?
I did this in Oxford, I did this in London and I did this in Baltimore (although not until my very first Alumni Reunion and sadly, there wasn’t any actual kissing involved on that particular occasion.) Now that I’ve decided to try my luck in the City of Brotherly Love, I’m doing it again here in Philadelphia.
And so, without further ado: the Surrealist.
- Surrealists have the looks, charms and six packs of Abercrombie and Fitch models.
- They’re endlessly enthusiastic about everything, which is why it’s so hard to tell if they’re into you or simply being friendly.
- They seem genuinely “All American” and they talk about their families so much that you get to thinking, “Gee, what a nice guy! He’s gorgeous but I’ll bet he doesn’t even know it!” Like hell he doesn’t.
- They’re very into discussing things that they’re passionate about (and the quintessential Surrealist will have some truly fascinating passions) but beware: they talk more than they listen. Also, if you’re honest with yourself, you’ll discover that you’re not as fascinated by their interests/studies/work as you pretend to be. In fact, if they weren’t so good looking, you’d have nodded off hours ago.
- Surrealists are elusive. And evasive. And somehow ubiquitous all at the same time. Half the time they’re not even single but they use code words for this such as “I lost my phone,” “I was busy at work” “I didn’t get your message” or “I had a concussion.” (How I wish I was making that last one up.)
- They reschedule a lot and they use the word “lovely” all the time. (“This was lovely.” “You’re eyes are lovely.” “Saturday night? That would be lovely but…”) “Lovely” is very different than “love.”
- Surrealists will keep you forever on your toes and forever guessing. They will never, ever, in a million years call when they say they’re going to call and even if they say, in plain English, “I’d like to see you again” (which they rarely do), do not—I repeat: DO NOT fall for it. “I’d like to see you again” does not equal “This was great, what are you doing next Friday night?”
- Finally, a Surrealist will never ask you for your phone number. I’ve got two on my spreadsheet (possibly three depending on how things pan out with The Civilian…) plus another seven from the pre-experiment years. Not once did any of these men ask for my phone number. (And yes, this is the first time I’ve actually tallied up just how many Surrealists I’ve attempted to pin down since I hit college and yes, I am appalled. Absolutely appalled. Without Facebook, business cards, student directories, staff directories and my knack for “accidentally” bumping into people, I’d have gotten nowhere.)
Just thinking about The Civilian and the way in which I managed to acquire his phone number is giving me a headache. Also, The Salsa Date is totally right about My One O’Clock—he is just stringing me along.
Moral of the story? Listen to your friends when they tell you he’s just not that into you because it’s impossible to maintain any sense of perspective (or dignity) when a Surrealist is flashing his pearly whites in your direction.
Then again, I am curious… has any of you managed to pin down one of these guys? One of these too-good-to-be-true Surrealist types? And if so, how did you do it? Is it even possible if you’re not… you know, a rather well-endowed blond bombshell?