Shallow Waters Run Deep

I'm taking a writing class at the New School, so hopefully I'll be posting here a bit more frequently. FYI, the assignment was to write either short or long sentences and include a device. Stay true.

One had somewhat wide hips. One had two cats. One had a dead tooth. I think it was a dead tooth. Something was funny about her teeth. It’s hard to explain. One defended Murray Hill. One told me that she used to be fat. I imagined the stretch marks. She was also legit crazy. This is common among newly skinny people. They think thin equals popular. That’s not how it works. I bet Jared from Subway still doesn’t have many friends. And he’s rich to boot. So I don’t feel bad about that particular girl. Because she was crazy.

But I do feel bad about the others. They deserved better. I know that:

- I have no right to be so picky. There are plenty of superficial reasons to write me off. I still get zits. I have a weak chin. Andy Rooney gives me shit about my eyebrows. An addiction to hummus means occasional gassiness. I like to brag about not owning a TV. It’s really obnoxious. I could go on.

- True beauty lies within. Everyone is beautiful in their own way. I believe that. Seriously. I wouldn’t date a physically perfect girl with a horrible personality. That’s not true. I wouldn’t date her for more than a month. Maybe two.

- I’m only hurting myself in the end. I may have already written off my soul mate because she was wearing Uggs. Although I do think such a seemingly trivial faux pas could be indicative of a more deep-seated flaw.

So at least I’m a self-aware asshole. Is that better or worse than being an oblivious asshole? Does it mean that I’m willfully being repugnant? (Which would be worse.) Or that I’m just too lazy to change? (Which would be better. Marginally.)

I’m not sure how it came to this. My mother is strong and independent. My romantic history isn’t exceptionally traumatic. Possible culprits:

- Pop culture - Women aren’t the only victims of the beauty-industrial complex. Granted: male bikini waxes are not (yet) de rigeur. True: I have never been catcalled. (Confession: I think I’d love it.) I hear ya’: high heels must really suck. Conclusion: women have it way worse. But guys suffer too. We’re brainwashed to prefer our women hairless/harassed/blistered. Maybe my innate preference for fuzzy-legged ladies was undermined by “Saved by the Bell” reruns. Maybe it goes all the way back to Maria on Sesame Street. (Total babe.) Maybe I’m the victim here.

- Self-loathing - Am I subliminally sabotaging dates because I don’t feel worthy of affection? Does this essay have any chance of being funny if the answer is “yes”? Or was it doomed from the start?
- An abnormally refined aesthetic appreciation of the female form: I’m not a jerk. I’m an artist.

And just what am I holding out for? Nothing too crazy. A sense of humor. Style. Sophistication. Intelligence. Uncommon beauty. You know. The complete package. Women like that don’t come around often. But they do exist. Put me down as cautiously optimistic. And completely undeserving.