He who was following me on Twitter is no longer following me on Twitter. One can only presume that he read the associated blog post and subsequently decided to “unfollow” me. Oops.
Maybe one of these days I’ll learn that blogging about my love life is not exactly the most effective way to build relationships.
But that day isn’t here yet, and lest I succumb to another sob-fest like I did yesterday, I’ve put together a (m)anthropological analysis of what I believe will comprise my fifth and final “type.”
I’m not sure what to call this last one. So far, I’ve got the Impressionists (men who like to impress women), the Pre-Raphaelites (men who like to love women), the Surrealists (men who like to confound women) and the Old Masters (men who like to bore women to death) but here my knowledge art history maxes out.
I need to go back to the Tate Modern. The Tate has that great wall just above the escalators that’s painted like a timeline with all the major periods in art history listed (the Old Masters, Cubists, the Dadaists, etc.) Unfortunately, it’s been a while since I’ve been at the Tate and it will probably be a while since I get back there again so I’m going to need some help for this one.
What do you call those guys who are just… there?
What should I call them?
You all know the ones I’m talking about. They’re the nice guys—they’re not exactly lighting the world on fire and they’re not exactly Calvin Klein underwear models and they’re not exactly threatening to kill themselves if you won’t go out with them, marry them, have their babies and live happily ever after.
They are—in a word—boring. (The subject of yesterday’s post was, for of all his breakfast in bed charms, exactly as I have just described.)
I’ve got seven such men on my Great Date spreadsheet. Statistically speaking, this means that I’ve gone out with more boring-but-nice-guys than any other type: only four Old Masters, only three Impressionists (thank God!), only three Pre-Raphaelites (thank God again!) and only three Surrealists (thank all gods of all religions!).
This would suggest that subconsciously I know the sort of guy I ought to be with—one of these boring-but-nice types—and that I’m not nearly as big of an idiot/martyr/masochist as I had originally feared.
But here’s the thing about boring guys: they’re, well… boring. (Unless you take the time to really get to know them, of course and this is where it gets complicated.)
Without fail, they call when they say they’re going to call, they pay for first dates, they’ll offer to drive you home (and sometimes even to pick you up, which is rarity in the 21st century, especially when you live in the city and profess to be a well-adjusted, financially independent, cosmopolitan sophisticate who can take care of herself, thank you very much).
They’ve traveled a bit, gone to college a bit and some have even lived abroad (this last one is always a major turn on for me).
So why do I never hit off with these guys?
Well, as usual, I blame Jane Austen. And Carrie Bradshaw. And my last boyfriend, who was rather solid but also quite dull. All three have left me wanting something… more.
Before signing off this morning, I should note that I have been diligently reading your comments and I agree with what many of you are saying: it’s not the “type” that matters. It’s the reason(s) that I gravitate towards certain types and the qualities that make these types “workable” (for me) or not. I’ll be attempting to wrap my head around these ideas over the weekend but in the meantime, I need your help with the last phase of my (m)anthropological analysis: what do I call these guys, the solid but boring ones?
Any art historians out there? And, perhaps more importantly, any success stories?