These People Think I’m Hot!
I Finally Found My Sweet Spot in the Dating World
I was a few steps from my grandfather’s building the other day when I heard it.
“Here comes that handsome man!”
My grandfather’s upstairs neighbor was just getting out of the car and looking directly at me. Jokingly I looked behind me as if the compliment was being directed to someone else.
It had happened before at work. Whenever I’d knock on my co-worker’s door, the manager inside would throw it out in the parlance of old black and white films.
“What’s cooking, good-looking?”
And at home, I heard it from the owner of my local liquor store. I walked in one day and saw the husband and wife behind the counter.
“Such a handsome boy!”
I smiled and blushed a little. It got slightly uncomfortable since I visited them every week and got the same greeting every time. Then they’d smile and talk to each other in Korean, watching me browse for Maker’s Mark or Bombay Sapphire.
Three independent sources telling me I’m kinda easy on the eyes. Yet I spend most of my writing exploring an utter failure at meeting new people. I’m literally like the Microsoft Zune of dating. These two conflicting sets of data just didn’t match up.
On the one hand three people found me attractive.
On the other, 0% of the female population wants to date me.
I tossed over all of this information in Sherlock Holmes style — Johnny Lee Miller, not Benedict Cumberbatch. By that I mean I sat in an overstuffed easy chair with my legs folded and glowered into the ether. Actually that’s every Sherlock (apologies Benny).
Then suddenly it hit me.
Each compliment, every time someone called me handsome, all the recognition of my singular metric fuck ton of hotness had one thing in common.
Each came from a middle-aged man.
How could I have missed it? If it were a sagging, graying ball sack it would have hit me in the face.
Laid before me was the answer to all of my dating problems. Provided that I was willing to… date middle-aged men. This would be a minor change for me, given that I generally date in my age group or slightly younger — I am a stereotypically shallow male after all.
Oh, and I also have never dated a man. That’s too important a point to overlook.
But maybe the cosmos is sending me a sign here. I’m clearly rocking it with the middle-aged man demo. Focus group results are in.
I can get into Turtle Wax and E*Trade and riding mowers. I’m a bourbon guy now, but I can switch to scotch. And start tucking in my polo shirts. I can trim my beard until it’s nothing but a short mustache. I can always have a pen handy, just legions of multicolor pens. I can work from the “old home office” on Saturday mornings and learn to enjoy eggs “over medium.” I can talk for days about the wonders of zinc supplements and buy gift certificates to “Art of Shaving.” I can go on for hours about how “Ray Donavan” is the best thing you’re not watching.
But then there’s the penis thing. Sigh. I’m not even that fond of my own, and I have a special attachment to that one. No, I mean literally an attachment to it. And chest hair isn’t a big thing for me, or facial hair for that matter. I know I sound like a hypocrite because I have all of those things. But I don’t have sex with myself! Well… actually… but it’s not… you’re confusing the point!
I guess I’ll just say thank you to all the middle-aged men who think I’m handsome. Your demo seems overly represented in the population of people who dig me — a population that apparently could fit snugly in a single Chevy Suburban.
I’ll keep you guys as a solid backup plan. I’m going to give age-appropriate women — a demo that’s treated me like Hillary Clinton in western Pennsylvania — another shot. Until then, come up with creative ways to use that Turtle Wax. And maybe cash in those Art of Shaving coupons. Chest hair is a non-starter.