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Stereotypical Male

When I opened the February issue of Glamour and flipped through a silly article called "Your Field Guide to Guys," I just about spit out my coffee on page 153.

OMG, IT'S MY EX! Oh, no, wait, it's just a generic male model dressed as a "Prepster." True, my ex was sometimes mistaken for a certain model, but he was not. In fact, he liked having his picture taken about as much as a gypsy or a Mennonite does. But I'm pretty sure he owned every article of clothing in this photo, plus the bike, or things very much like them. My ex was the type of guy I pined for in high school, when this look was fresh and new and even kind of punk rock, in a Weezer sort of way. I was so thrilled to acquire one of my very own, finally, in college. He was awfully cute, but higher maintenance than appearances suggest, and ultimately, unexpectedly, not really my type.

The man I married defies any sort of categorization. If he belongs to a "type," it will not be found on the pages of Glamour magazine. He's the guy who's been administered the MMPI, ahem, several times, and always receives an error message instead of a four-letter personality code. You know, like Hannibal Lecter. But he does share many similarities with these two Glamour prototypes:

James Bond here is what Mr. G would have been, without a doubt, had he been born into wealth. His CYCLING gear is always first-rate... because he gets a discount from work. He does enjoy hunting big game and attending the opera, but these outings are rare indeed on our budget.

"His joie de vivre is enthralling... and exhausting. He's into extreme sports, fine food, great wine, high culture. He's never tired, can hold his liquor, and is up for anything, anytime." Yeah, that pretty much covers it, except Mr. G cannot afford to partake in "extreme sports" and "high culture" apart from watching them on TV, and he's more of an expensive beer connoisseur than a wine snob. Growing up in the 'hood gave him allergies, so red wine gives him a rash.

Mr. G is also described fairly well by the "Man-Child" profile.

I think the Man-Child is pretty much the same as the Passionista, with less disposable income. And maybe less athleticism. Mr. G doesn't participate in any sports except cycling, but he does things like cut up a large elm tree in two weeks using a chainsaw and old-school axes. The "Man-Child" description doesn't lend itself to this powerful workhorse capacity.

So I guess Mr. G is somewhere between the two, with many characteristics not mentioned by either one. He is also a Man-Child raised well, with respect for women and good manners... when he feels like exhibiting them. Oh, and life skills. Many practical life skills. Work hard, play hard.

I'm glad I found and contractually bound myself to Mr. G, because he is utterly irreplaceable. I have no idea where I would be floating and what kinds of men I would be dating if not for Mr. G. He's a cult classic, not bestseller.

What's YOUR type? Do you have one or several? Have your tastes changed over time? Can your current partner be described by a women's-magazine label? Oh, and inspired by a silly meme going around Facebook, what celebrity reminds you of your love?


  1. God, your ex was such a major ass clot. He was so...tight! He was pinched and tight and wound so tight, he sucked. And he didn't love me. Anyone who doesn't love me is not good enough for you.

    LMAO Oh How I love you! And all of Mr. G's interesting and delicious layers! You two make a great pair!

  2. Esperanza, you are so right that if a guy doesn't like your friends, it's not going to work out. I should have known right away that if anyone didn't love you, they weren't worth the trouble.

    To be fair to my poor ex, though, I wasn't right for him either. I think we all do the best we can. He hated the pretentiousness of academia and California, but at the same time he felt like he had to keep up to their standards.

    So when he started training me to be a yuppie showpiece, I turned into Amy Sedaris. He implied that my rear end was too fat to wear Asian-inspired styles of clothing, so I ate bags of peanut M&Ms every day, all summer, until I gained 10 pounds. Then we went to a dinner party and I wore a Chinese blouse and showed one of his colleagues my new back fat.

    Direct quote: "Back fat is not appropriate dinner conversation." Oh well. I tried learning how to make all kinds of trendy salads and maintaining a "chunky" hairdo. Epic fail on that front.

    But there were plenty of good times. And now I appreciate my well-matched husband in ways I couldn't have if I always wondered, "What if I married some straight-laced guy with lofty career ambitions?" Because I was thisclose, and it smelled like moldy cheese and despair.

  3. To contrast: Yesterday, my love brought me a mug of coffee and a bouquet of flowers from Horrocks in the morning, after his early shift. Then we went to the Oasis taco stand and ordered food made out of a cow's face, with two Mexican Cokes made with real sugar. We sang to Rammstein in the car.

    Ich tu dir weh! BOM BOM BA BA BOM!

    Then we came home and watched Mexican/Spanish movies, including one that featured a bald guy with mutton chops on the front. Mmm. When it got dark, we went to bed early and stayed up giggling for two hours like tween girls at a slumber party.

    Happily ever after!

  4. You was right to rebel against that. When something is threatning your existance as a good human being, a genuine soul...survival is survival.

    And you and I both know that Back fat is ALWAYS appropriate dinner conversation.

    At least in my circles, it is.


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