At this point you might want to smack me and say: “Are you seriously just another grown woman talking about how she wants a man who isn’t afraid of commitment?” Let me explain! I’m not talking about commitment to romantic relationships. I’m talking about commitment to things—houses, jobs, neighborhoods. Paying a mortgage. When men hear women want a commitment, they think it means commitment to a romantic relationship, but that’s not it. It’s a commitment to not floating around anymore. I want a guy who is entrenched in his own life. Entrenched is awesome.
Ladies: I can give you Entrenched.
But before I get to that, a little more female perspective:
Boys are adorable. Boys trail off their sentences in an appealing way. Boys get haircuts from their roommate, who “totally knows how to cut hair.” Boys can pack up their whole life and move to Brooklyn for a gig if they need to. Boys have “gigs.” Boys are broke. And when they do have money, they spend it on a trip to Colorado to see a music festival.
Until I was 30, I dated only boys. I’ll tell you why: Men scared the sh*t out of me. Men know what they want. Men own alarm clocks. Men sleep on a mattress that isn’t on the floor. Men buy new shampoo instead of adding water to a nearly empty bottle of shampoo. Men make reservations. Men go in for a kiss without giving you some long preamble about how they’re thinking of kissing you. Men wear clothes that have never been worn by anyone else before.
The point: Men know what they want, and that is scary.
Weird. So if I’m interpreting this correctly, females nearish my age might want a “man,” at least as a second-order desire, but at the same time might be intimidated by “men,” maybe because they are still girlish themselves. So, paradoxically, they’re not sure whether they want someone who knows what he wants.
As a side note, I agree: totally freaky. One of the great mysteries of the universe to me is people who know what they want.
I guess by that definition I’m not a man. But I don’t seem to fit the boy profile either. I am trying to figure out where I fall on the boy/man continuum.
Evidence: I am up to three racquetball partners who have said to me, “Do you have kids yet? Oh, you’re not even married yet?!” I then patiently explain how I don’t even have a ladyfriend at the moment. And then I take them back inside the racquetball court and proceed to whoop their ass, unbitterly.
I guess the fact that I am being asked these questions is a sign that I am getting old and adult-y. Which is weird, because I don’t feel old or adult-y. In some ways I still feel fresh out of the high school womb. I hardly feel adult-y enough to buy beer.
I show the outward signs of adult responsibility. I am employed; I floss; I listen to public radio; I own property; I have investments and retirement plans; I have a dependent (well, a dog); I remember to buy toothpaste.
On the other hand, I still laugh pretty heartily at poop jokes.
More evidence: As I write this, it is 1:30 AM and I am sitting in my jammies listening to Katy Perry.
I have a theory that there is some experimental stage in ordinary lives – one where people try recreational drugs or binge on alcohol or make out with strangers – the consequences of which trigger some response that says, “OK: time to grow up.”
I think I skipped that stage.
I wonder if I might need to artificially induce an experimental stage in order to blossom into a capital-M Man. But it kind of feels too late for that. What am I going to do, show up at a college party and say, “hey guys, wanna talk Roth IRAs?”
I guess the point is that there is a big difference between living like an adult and feeling like an adult, where feeling like an adult is defined as knowing what you want and laughing less heartily at poop jokes.
Which leads me to the conclusion that I am probably the ideal mate for a 20-something female: I can offer entrenchment in abundance, I can give you really cute babies, and, best of all, none of this knowing-what-I-want B.S.
