"Perhaps the thorniest problem facing any young man is finding a woman in the first place. It turns out to be nearly impossible."
- Crow T. Robot, "MST3K"
"Aren't you supposed to watch the game? Who watches the cheerleaders?"
As you sat with your arm around your girlfriend on the couch last night, you wish God - in His infinite wisdom - had bothered to think through creating woman from man's rib. Maybe another part of the male anatomy ...
"Why don't you own more than two pairs of shoes?"
Something more vital ...
"Does this movie really need so many explosions?"
Like the brain ...
"Do these socks make my ankles look fat?"
Please, don't misconstrue ($5 word) the above, not-so fictional dialogue as indicative of any secret misogynist ($10 word) tendencies on my part. I like girls, to be as blunt as a bad Jay Leno monologue joke.
I love girls, in fact. Aside from a Super Bowl parade down Main Street (someday, hopefully) or a paycheck with more than four digits, there's nothing so beautiful and awe-inspiring as a girl who has "it" and "that." What "it" and "that" constitute is difficult to quantify, like Jell-O covered in motor oil is difficult to grasp. Yet it's easy to recognize.
The way her hand fits into yours, the softness of her lips, her smile when you make her laugh (with you, not at you), "the way her head finds your shoulder," to quote internet junk mail - it all makes life on this little spinning insane asylum of a planet worth living.
That being said...
"Be sure to buy the ones with wings."
...nothing good is ever easy.
The statement by Mr. Robot preceding this week's madness is essentially correct, with one important qualifier. Finding a woman is easy, any simpleton can do that. Standing up in the middle of a PTA meeting and announcing, "I have front row tickets to the 'Oprah Winfrey' show" will get you a woman.
The trick is finding the right woman, which leads to the inevitable question, "How do I find the right woman?"
Prayer. And beer. In either order.
The real key to finding the right woman is understanding the types of "females" (sweet, sassy, psycho) out "there" (bars, clubs, hospital cafeterias) and whether or not they fit your personality "type" (will call back, won't call back, "What the hell is a phone?"). Since a guy should know his personality type, it would be pointless of me to outline those. We at the Spectrum are many things, but never pointless.
Although my bias skews pro-male - as well as pro-Republican, pro-"Star Wars," pro-"Simpsons" and anti-sock-puppets - I can somewhat sympathize with the ladies. Watching a number of troglodytic ($15 word) guys lope past Sal's on a Saturday night evokes a certain amount of pity for girls - the kind of pity reserved for calves waiting in their pens to be slaughtered. I'm just thankful for the short circuit in girls' brains that allows them to see men as attractive and that more haven't discovered lesbianism.
However, their problems are not my problems.
It would be foolhardy to expect all women to fit neatly into a slot like a black or red disk when playing "Connect Four." Vague generalities are sufficient enough today to establish broad outlines of collective groups of women who make up a majority of the population.
We know the type "A" female. Any guy who's been to a bar or frat party has first hand experience with this kind of unpleasantness. Type "A" is the specimen with a wardrobe based on the philosophy of minimalism, a Wonder Bra made of steel, more paint slathered on her face than the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and an icy, soulless stare.
"Hi, what's your name?" (Silence.) "I think you're really pretty and I was wondering if you'd like to dance?" (Silent as the grave.) "Oh my God, someone's cigarette set my hair on fire!" (Snort of contempt.) "Can you take me to the burn ward?" "Loser."
I take comfort from the fact type "A" females have very poor asshole detectors and attract men of a similar stripe. Imagine two brand new SUVs playing a game of chicken with each other at 100 mph. The resulting crash is spectacular.
There's no specific physical description for the type "B" girl. However, I'll challenge the male population of UB not to recognize this type. You know she's hot. She knows she's hot. Does she turn this to her advantage? Oh yes.
"Hey (insert your name here), I need to ask you something," she says breathlessly, leaning close with her hand on your thigh.
(Gulp) "Yeah?" you respond as the ice in your drink melts.
"Can you do something to me, I mean, for me?" she whispers into your ear.
"Uh-uh." The ice tray in the freezer melts.
"Can you...."
"Yes?"
"Can you drive me to the store?"
The Tease. Look familiar? It should. Please, don't let it happen to you.
Type "C" offers a fascinating look at a rare but vocal breed of American womanhood. All male/female interaction is seen through the prism of being caused by or a symptom of male oppression or patriarchy ($5 word).
"Let me get the door for you."
"No! What, do you think I'm not capable of doing that myself?"
"I was just trying..."
"I'd hit you with the purse that'd I be carrying if it didn't symbolize the oppression of women over the centuries!"
These women can be identified by the perpetual scowl and grim expression they carry like an albatross around their necks. Like sleeping gators, best to let lie alone.
Last but never least is my personal favorite, type "D" - the bane of decent guys everywhere - the "just friends" girl.
To be honest, I have no quips, only observations. You women claim to want nice guys, but then go flock to the lunkhead, "Uggh stick smash!" monosyllabic mouth breathers only because they look like GQ models who then proceed to treat you like crap.
Meanwhile the nice guy is the one who patiently listens to you complain about assholes while it kills him on the inside. Of course, he'd never tell you this because he's a nice guy who you want to be "just friends" with.
Deep breath and exhale.
While I might sound cynical, deep down that's not true. I believe love is one of the three "Ls" of life - liberty and laughter being the other two. Life is not worth living without any of those three. I know the right girl is out there. I've met her.
I just need to find her again.
Hey, what's your name?
