The Three Types of Men
Having been out in the ugly dating scene since the age of 16 (well, actually 18; I had one date at 16, followed by a two-year dry spell that should have told me something), with only one real hiatus -- having been married to the legendary PEB (Pompous English Bastard, according to a friend) for an entirely-too-long 18 months -- I feel that the time has come for me to lay down my Theory on Men to those of you who may be just starting out, so that you won't waste a lot of time making my mistakes, and can instead forge ahead to make new, completely different mistakes of your own. The Theory: Although we really want to believe that men are as diverse and fascinating a lot as we are, my research has shown that there are really only three types out there: (1) taken, (2) available, and (3) stupid. For the purposes of this missive I will focus mainly on types 1 and 3, as there seem to be no more than about six men in the civilized world who qualify for type 2 status, and I'm fairly certain they've gone underground by this point. 1. Taken: This is a broad category, encompassing married men (although some of them (PEB) seem to be operating under the impression (PEB) that they qualify for type 2 (PEB)), men sporting spousal units of any sex or orientation -- or whose sexual orientation differs from yours -- and men who live with their mothers beyond the age of 24. These men are the "Relationship Don'ts"; that is, if they had a column devoted to them in Glamour, their photos would all have those black strips across the eyes. If one of these men should approach you for a date, smile politely and tell him that you'd simply love to, but it'll have to wait until after you get your test results back from the hospital -- we wouldn't want to take any unnecessary chances now, would we? And smile again. Sweetly. 3. Stupid: With these men, I can (and will) point fingers: David, the fabulous actor/model who didn't have a phone (or so he said) , only had a pager, and insisted on always calling collect once from a pay phone in Mexico while he was getting his boots shined. When I refused his calls and informed him that this was inappropriate and presumptuous behavior, considering that we had only seen each other once, he left a message on my answering machine telling me that, well, he had never really been interested in me anyway, mainly due to the fact that I was fat, ugly, and had "a plain face." The scariest part of this man is that he honestly thought that he had made a statement that would completely crush my world. Bad call, Dave. Pussyboy (OK, it's really Steve, but Pussyboy is soooooo much more descriptive!), who just couldn't (unh!) relax and enjoy himself with me (gasp!), because he was still enjoying the pain (mmf!) of getting dumped (sob!) by his last (sniff!) girlfriend. Over a year ago. The day of Kurt Cobain's memorial service. I recommended counseling and quickly grew to hate him. Bill, er, William (he thought the latter was classier, and insisted that I use it in the presence of his friends), who is the hands-down winner of the Squeezie Award for Anal-Retentive Tendencies. Typical Bill-isms include: "Could you please roll over and face the other way? Your breathing is keeping me awake," "Let's go home; I have NOTHING in common with these people," "I can't sleep; your perfume is making me wheeze," "Don't stir the ground beef THAT way, honey; stir it THIS way," and, my personal favorite, "We can't have sex right now; I have to call my friend Vijay and get the class assignment that I missed." Got the picture? Dwight, the 32-year-old suicidal virgin who, upon close inspection, was revealed to have shaved off all of his armpit hair for no apparent reason. Yikes. But all is not lost, I suppose. I'm still relatively young and have all my own teeth (an asset when dating in Egypt, I'm told). I'm sure that someday I'll find Mr. Special and have a fabulous, fun-filled life of adventure and romance; but until then, I think I'm going to see a doctor about having this homing device for Stupid Men removed from the lining of my uterus -- for my own safety.