The Benefits of Hot Weather

The collision of two events is making for a lot of Floor 2 activity this week. I nearly got brain paralysis walking from the train to my office.

You see, it is hot here today. Normally, it is rare to get above the mid 70s here in the city. But today the temperature started in the 70s, and is currently climbing. When that happens, women take off clothing. I suppose men do as well, but I haven’t been paying much attention to dudes.

The other event is that I am working in the city now. There are a ton of women working in the city. In the valley, where I formerly worked, there was nothing but stinky dudes, primarily software engineers, in the air-conditioned environs of sterile offices. The ratio was 5 sweaty engineers and finance guys for every one woman. Not good for visual stimulation.

But in the city, the glorious city, women outnumber men four to one, easily. And now, they’re wearing summer clothing! Revealing clothing! No, women aren’t running around naked, but man! The thin, white pants. The low cut tops. Cleavage and Boobs! The exposed flesh. The calves. The curves of the hips. Visually stunning. And possibly causing some minor brain damage.

If I didn’t have responsibilities, I would go park myself outside, have coffee and watch the scenery. Look, I am not trying to be lecherous, but these visual stimuli provide tiny enjoyment that every (straight) guy quietly enjoys. When the the mental elevator gets stuck on Floor 2, it sometimes may be embarrassing, but it is infinitely enjoyable in the moment.

I need to find someplace outside to have lunch. Right, Mateo?

My Top 5 Rejections. Number 1.

Here it is…the final one. I bet you can’t wait to roll around in the humiliation. Enjoy.

Some back-story is helpful in fully relishing in my pain, so it is probably better to read Numbers 5 through 2 first. 5 4 3 2

Number 1

As you’ll recall from Number 4, my interactions with the fairer sex went off the rails sometime before junior high school. Rejection Number 1 precipitated the decline.

Elementary school. There were 21 kids in my sixth grade class, and one of them was Becky R. On the tallish side, she was a brown haired cutie with a penchant for hoodie sweatshirts. To this day, I still think of Becky in her red Ohio State sweatshirt whenever I pull on a hoodie.

I had known Becky since the first grade and we had ascended all the elementary school grades together in the same classes. She lived a couple of streets over from me with her brothers, one of whom, Scott, was a grade older than us. For a 6th grader, she had a casual air about her, and she never “went” with anyone in our class but was often rumored to go with older boys. But, this was 6th grade. We were finally the oldest class in elementary school. There was no older class present from which she could choose her boy to “Go” with. It was clear she would choose someone from my grade, and it was going to be me.

And why wouldn’t she? I mean, to date, I was the kingpin of my sixth grade class. Oh, I mean, I had some competition. But really, my buddy TP didn’t have the smooth sixth grades words that I did, and Greg P, frankly, his teeth were all jacked-up, pre-braces style.

I had the fortune of sitting next to Becky that year. It was in the back of the class on the right side of the room, mostly out of ear-shot from the teacher. I started making my play for the brunette with the casual attitude. Over a couple of conversations, I gleaned that she had a crush on - of all people - my brother! DAMMIT. This guy was out of sight (at least to her) in junior high. He shoulda been out of mind! I didn’t even calculate him into being the competition.

I contemplated my next move. How could I win her heart? I mean, I had tried to win it through witty banter in the back of the classroom, but that didn’t work. The logical next step, to my sixth grade mind, was to put words down on paper to more effectively conveying my feelings. It was brilliant. She could take my words, and by proxy a little piece of me, with her wherever she went. How could I go wrong?

Remember my advice in Number 2 about never, ever writing love letters? Well, the writing is on the wall, isn’t it?

One evening at home, I wrote my heart out on 3 hole punched, blue lined paper which I drew from my Trapper Keeper. I spoke of my devotion to her, and how I would be there, and despite that fact I thought she liked my brother, I was the better man. Poetic license allowed my 12 year old self to call me a man.

I took the letter to school and put it in my desk, waiting for the perfect time to hand it to her. Since lunch in elementary school consisted of dividing into gender tribes, I would hand the note to her, then allow her to be wowed by my prose over lunch and the immediately following recess period. So, I did just that. Right before we lined up to head to the lunchroom, I opened the top of my desk, pulled out the letter, which was neatly folded down into a small square, naturally, and handed it to her. All the pieces would align, and by the end of recess Becky and I would be going together.

What happened next was atypically uneventful. She let me down easy. It seems she did have a crush on my older brother. It was sixth grade, and I was riding high on my previous relationships. I was able to recover quickly and I moved on to Vanessa, a small blond. But that’s another story and this story is about get a lot more interesting.

I had forgotten about the letter. I graduated from sixth grade and had the summer off. Started the new world of Junior High - small fish in a big pond. The 8th and 9th graders seemed so much bigger, having started puberty and all.

Along with a lot of kids in my neighborhood, I rode the bus to junior high. They boys typically sat in the back, and I made uneasy peace with the older kids, protected somewhat by my brother, a 9th grader at the time (and probably still is mentally).

After picking us up, the bus would swing by Becky’s street and pick her up, along with her brother Scott amongst others. One bright, warm autumn morning as we were on the way to school, Scott stood up, standing against the very back of the bus, and loudly proclaimed he had something to read. He drew a folded piece of paper from his dirty jeans and started to read from it. “Dear Becky…” So much had I forgotten about the letter that it took a couple of sentences to hit home that it was my letter. I came to that realization about 10 seconds before the rest of the bus did. Kids - from my neighborhood, including my own brother - were howling with laughter. Cackling. Here, my heartfelt words were being pried open by some grungy, mullet-haired bully. It was excruciating and I stewed in embarrassment until we got to school. It felt like an eternity for the kids to empty from the bus. My hopes of ever dating Becky were over. I couldn’t recover from this humiliation.

Becky hit puberty earlier than me, and hung with a different crowd. She and I drifted apart for the remainder of junior high and high school. I don’t know what part, if any, she had in her brother’s performance on the bus. I’d like to think she didn’t have any involvement, as I still see her soul as being pure and her brother’s as being blacked by evil.

Becky and I graduated the same year and I heard she’s living….happily near the area where we grew up. As for her brother Scott, he is living in a trailer park in some rural area with his 7 cats, a busted-down pickup truck and a no-good deadbeat of a husband. What a dick, that guy.

My Top 5 Rejections. Number 2.

Ripping the band-aid from my youth’s hairy arm of embarrassment to bring you a feeling of superiority. Read away, sickos.

If you need some structure in your life, you can start with: Number 5, then go to Number 4, then Number 3.

Number 2.

My friend Ben seemed to have the magic touch. In high school, I was amazed by him because he had a never-ending stream of dates, it seemed to me. He dated girl after girl in our large suburban, brick-clad high school of 3,000 kids. He dated the cheerleader, the geeky girls, even the Spanish foreign exchange student, who was oddly tall, and while cute had a poor complexion. In high school, Ben looked like he was 30 years old, could pull off a beard, and often carried himself in mature, low key manner. I don’t know if those were the secret ingredients, but whatever the ingredients, I wanted them.

One girl he dated briefly in our junior year was a girl named Carrie. She was pretty. Not pretty as in a cute-high-school-girl way, but rather pretty in the objective way you would appreciate a Renoir. She had long brown, wavy hair that never seems to go out of style. By contrast, the rest of the high school girls had big hair, curly “perms,” and these super big, blow-dry, claw-style bangs. The early 90s was a bad era for fashion, it would seem.

While Ben was dating Carrie, I was only vaguely her acquaintance through him. I didn’t try to get to know her better because I felt I wasn’t in her league, and well, why bother getting to know her well when Ben would be onto someone new in a week or so. So ended my Junior year, as far as Carrie was concerned.

In my high school, we didn’t have study halls, per se. You could simply had free modules, or half periods, and they would dump you in the lunch room if you didn’t have a proper class to attend. The lunch room was huge, loud, raucous, and smelled of bad food. If one of the kitchen staff dropped a big pan or otherwise made a loud noise, she would get a loud and long standing ovation. No kidding. It was quasi-chaos. You couldn’t leave campus, so you were stuck. As an alternative, you could go to the relatively more comfortable environment of the library where you could talk to someone at a normal conversational volume.

Early in my senior year, my buddy GK, Stoner Joe and I got into a routine. We would eat lunch, then head to the library to shoot the shit and read Rolling Stone and Time magazine. One day, Carrie asked if she could join us for lunch. In the stupid teenage boy mumble-speak I am sure we employed, we allowed her to sit down. She also tagged along to the library. It became a regular thing. Every day it was the four of us, and it was nice to have this little group. We had a good time, just talking amongst the four of us, day-in and day-out. It was like a little break from the hell that was high school.

With the relatively high level of time spent with her (as compared to the non-existent time I spent with other girls), I started to develop something of a crush on Carrie. I still felt she was out of my league, but crushes know no caste system. I secretly and silently started to pine for Carrie. It was during this time I wrote a letter to my best friend Rob, who had moved to Florida, professing my intense “like” for Carrie. In the letter I admitted I thought she may have a crush on my buddy GK however. (If you’re, say, in your teens and are looking for some girl advice, I can only advise one thing: save yourself humiliation and never make proclamations of love to a woman in writing. It will only come back to haunt you, trust me. Twice it has bitten me. Rob- Eff you.)

A few months into the school year, I started to notice clandestine conversations between GK and Carrie. I was growing desperate. They maintained they were just friends, but I noticed little secret communications between the two. It was agonizing. It became clear that something was going on and I was being left out. I tried to insert myself into their goings-on, but to no avail. I was thrashing about trying to get to the bottom of it, and my despair was pretty obvious.

After what felt like forever, but was probably only a week of the conspiracy, the three of us got together outside of school. I think we went for pizza, and they we’re acting like they had something to tell me. I got the sinking feeling that they were going to inform me they were a couple. She reached into her bag and pulled out a gift-wrapped box. It was a couple of days before my birthday, and they had been planning what they were going do for me. GK said, “This is what we didn’t want to tell you. We wanted to surprise you.”

It was a shirt from the Gap, not a cheap gift either, considering our feeble teenager income. It was the beginning of the 90’s and plaid was just starting to come into style. The shirt was an earth-colored plaid, but not to be non-preppy, Gap had subtly inserted geese flying into the pattern. Geese flying into plaid, how Gappy. In a nightclub, with the black light, it looked like the geese were dried leaves and people would always say, “Hey, you got something on your shirt” and I would have to explain, “No, man, it’s part of the pattern of the shirt.” But I digress.

Upon opening the gift, I knew I had been acting like a heel and it was obvious to everyone at the table. I had made a fool of myself in my jealous attempts to butt into their friendship. My overtures toward Carrie didn’t escape her notice and she politely declined my advances, in a “Rejection-Lite” way. It became clear she didn’t want to date me, and I gradually accepted this fate. We all managed to stay friends throughout the remainder of the year, and even to this day I still feel very good about the time spent my senior year in 9-10 mods.

My buddy GK kept more in touch with her after high school. I didn’t really talk to her after graduation, but I kept the shirt until 2006, partially out of guilt for acting like an ass. A long time after graduation, Carrie wrote GK a letter saying that she is doing well and living in a trailer park in some rural area with her 7 children, and her busted-down pickup truck and her no-good deadbeat of a husband. A fate of which she is totally undeserving.

My Top 5 Rejections. Number 3.

Continuing to harvest deep seated scars for your amusement. Schadenfreude-ophiles.

Numbers five and four first, if you want be orderly.

Number 3.

When you’re a high school boy, the drive to just get laid is overwhelming. You just want to do it. The trick was finding a willing female participant. Before I went off to college, I had pulled off the improbable: I had actually convinced a woman to get naked and roll around with me on the bed until certain parts aligned. But this isn’t a story about that. This is a tale of rejection. In this case, I think you will find, it was for cause.

If a high school boy’s drive to get laid is high, then as a college freshman - having tasted the sweet, sweet nectar of hooking up - the drive to get laid again is even greater. I mean, my freshman year, walking around looking at all these women who were my age, wearing little clothing, and being very flirty, my head was going to explode. In all actuality, it was still some amount of work to convince a girl to strip down and roll around, but the outlook was very promising.

In college, I was on the Swimming and Diving team. We swimmers never really saw the divers until dual meet season started. So, at the first meet of the season, there was a particularly busty, alabaster skinned, blond diver on the team. The busty-ness was enhanced by the diving board. Bouncy.

Swim meets are generally pretty boring affairs. The diving part of the meet, normally even more so. On this particular occasion, I had never paid more attention to the diving, for obvious reasons. I had to do reconnaissance. Where was a team member to go to get the intelligence on a co-ed team member? A-ha! The don’t call it the locker room for nothing. As guys do, I inquired and we talked about her locker-room style after the meet. Fellow swimmer and team captain Todd informed me that she was a sophomore and, he had heard, didn’t take too much convincing to hook-up. I took a mental note.

Since it was an away meet for us, we had a 2 hour drive back to school. Boarding the bus, the gods were smiling on me because, lo-and-behold, there was an empty seat next to Easy Diver. Hallelujah, I started to find religion. I sat down, and planned to test the waters on the drive home. I had two hours to work with and I was going to give it my best shot.

Frankly, looking back, I really don’t remember the conversation. Maybe she wasn’t very interesting. Maybe all I could focus on were her boobs (Floor 2), but whatever the case, when we got back to school and pulled into the rec center parking lot, I played my card…”Hey, do you want to back to my room and then grab a bite to eat.” “Yes, ok,” she replied. I almost fell off the bus. My plan was actually working.

We walked from the school’s rec center past the student activity center where a concert sponsored by the Black Student Alliance was being held, and on to my dorm. My dorm room was a mess, smelled of chlorine (my roomate was also a swimmer), and had a six foot tall head shot of Robert Smith from the Cure on the wall, courtesy of my roommate. Robert’s huge image, with his goth white face and black eye make-up, was looking down on the standard suburban issue, late 70’s vintage, brown-and-orange couch where I invited Easy Diver to sit.

I can’t even remember if I turned on the TV, the radio or what. We were probably in the room for only 30 seconds when I sat down next to her, and asked if I could kiss her. I think she was shocked by how suddenly I sprung the question.

To my way of thinking at that time, though, if a girl agreed to go alone to your room, the obvious was going to happen. Right? I mean, come on. Let’s get to business. But, this isn’t a story about getting down to business. You know what this story is.

She consented to the kiss. I had a live one on the line with a reputation for being easy. Woo-hoo, here we go! I leaned in for the kiss, then thrust my tongue into her mouth and tasted the spot where her tonsils used to be. I was going in full force. My hand were all over the place. We kissed for a few seconds, and then…she pulled back. I can’t imagine why. Had to be because the Robert Smith poster freaked her out. Whatever the real reason, it was clear she wanted to put a halt to this train.

I could see her brain trying to come up with something, anything to get outta of the pool scented freshman dorm room. I saw the lightbulb.

“Could we go to the concert at the student activity center?”

“What? The BSA concert?”

“Yeah, I wanted to check that out.”

I knew the train was derailed. In the back of my mind, I was trying to figure out how to get things back on track. We walked over the the concert. Did I say it was a Black Student Alliance concert? Well, it was. And this super-white, blond haired not-so Easy Diver and I were the only white folks in the hall. She immediately skipped over to the dance floor and started to dance with some people.

After less than a minute, I threw in the towel. Maybe I got faulty information on her, who knows. It was over. So close. Well, at least we didn’t really have to see each other outside of swim meets.

As is typical of locker room behavior, I became a legend in the locker room because all the guys were involved in the conversation after the meet, and they saw me leave the bus with her. I tried to tell the truth about what went on, but they didn’t believe that I bombed out. This poor girl had to live with this (probably undeserved) reputation.

I don’t even remember her being on the team after that year. She may have been there, or she may have dropped out. I really can’t remember. I did however run into her at an alumni reunion. Easy Diver is doing well and living in a trailer park in some rural area with her 7 children, and her busted-down pickup truck and her no-good deadbeat of a husband. She has a pool, though, with a bouncy diving board.

My Top 5 Rejections. Number 4.

Continuing to expose the emotional wounds for your reading enjoyment. Sadists.

Read Number 5 first, if you haven’t and care about order.

Number 4

In elementary school chicks dug me. I was chased on the play ground, kissed in the coatroom and invited to play spin the bottle. It was a great start to my interaction with females. I was hot shit.

Then, unbeknownst to me, something happened. Looking back, I think it was the onset of puberty for every around me, leaving me still in cherub-land. As a general rule, after sixth grade I was socially clumsy and not smooth with the girls. But that was the general rule, and not always so.

Enter Wendy F in seventh grade. She was this soft-voiced, cutie who had big, light brown hair with bangs dropping into her eyes. She was adorable with nice, kissable lips. If only I had the chance to experience them.

By some random twist of fate (that being an alignment of a seating chart) we sat next to one another in the back of the class room in math class. The teacher was a dick and I quietly made fun of him, which caught Wendy’s attention. She laughed, and eventually, we had a bit of a rapport going on. We talked a lot in class and got in trouble together for it. It was fun, and I thought she was digging me.

With this diggery in mind, the scene cuts to the Junior High dance. Just as in all the movies about dances, but the girls and guys were actually intermingling. 80s music was lingering in the air like cigar smoke. “I feel for you” by Chaka Kahn. “Wild Boys” by the Durans.

I passed by Wendy in the hall outside the gym where, naturally, the Dance was being held. We talked and said hi. She was digging me. I could feel it. She smiled a lot. Gave shy glances from behind her bangs.

I had to pee real bad, so I said, “I’ll see you inside.”

“OK,” she replied. I think she meant it too, like, it was OK.

I returned from the bathroom, entered the dimly lit gym with the douche bag DJ spinning “Rhythm of the night” by El DeBarge. It took a second for my eyes to adjust, and I was scanning the room for Wendy when the “Rhythm” ended and Madonna’s “Crazy for You” started to spin.

Perfect. Time to make my move and take my relationship with Wendy to the next stage. I found her in a group of her friends, maybe 5 of them. As I walked over, nervous as hell about what I was about to do; ask a girl to dance for the first time and pray to god I wouldn’t sport wood on the gym floor.

In retrospect, what the F was I thinking? Approaching a girl in a gaggle of her friends without a wingman of my own; throwing my soul out there for those dark-hearted 7th grade harpies to pick apart.

I walked up to her, feeling pretty confident, despite my nerves.

“Hey Wendy….wanna Dance?”

“No. Eww. Now? No.” Seriously. These were the words that came out. But you have to read them fast in order to get the effect. The gaggle laughed. Hard.

I was stunned. What else could I do? I walked away. We had such a thing going, I figured her saying yes was a formality.

What I had not considered was the social ramifications. Those harpies in her clique had blackballed me. I really think she liked me to some degree, but I wasn’t on the in-list. I was on the outs.

Wendy and I recovered the friendship, as I acted as if it was no big deal to have my pre-pubescent heart stomped on for the purpose of her social approval into a clique. After that year, though, we didn’t talk. She kind turned burn-outy in high school. I think I heard she was living in a trailer park in some rural area with her 7 children, and her busted-down pickup truck and her no-good deadbeat of a husband. I hope not. She was too cute.

My Top 5 Rejections. Number 5.

Guys have to put themselves “out there” more often than women when dating, I think. I mean, more often than not, it is incumbent upon a guy to ask a woman out on a date and, in so doing, put themselves at risk for rejection. That’s all well and good for the balance of burdens among the genders. I’d much rather be rejected every now and again than be forced to endure monthly periods, but I digress.

Like George McFly, we’re afraid of rejection, and invariably every guy has some stories to tell from the inevitable “No, Thanks” we all get. It’s only possible to tell the stories after enough time has gone by and we’ve reached an emotional stability where we can laugh at them and ourselves.

So, for me now, enough time has passed on these: my top 5 rejections.

Number 5

10th grade Geometry. My buddy Scott and I were in the class together, and on the first day, the teacher asked us to describe, as a get-to-you-know-you exercise, our ideal vacations. A brunette with big cans, pretty eyes, and a bigger back-yard, described how she wanted to go to the Bahamas. Forever after, to me and Scott, she was called Bahama Mama. Hey, shut up. We were in 10th grade walking around with boners all the time trying to come up with a way to get our first shot at being naked with a girl.

By this time in the story, I was pretty hard up for a date (as you’ll see in the rejections recounted later). I didn’t swoon over Bahama, but I was looking for a date. Anything. What I would have done made it to second base to experience those big cans. Those eyes, too. We didn’t sit near one another in class, and even if we had, I didn’t have any game. I was maybe five foot eight or nine and a buck oh five. I couldn’t fabricate a reason to strike up a conversation.

So, mid-year on the bus home from swim practice, I asked my buddy Heath for her number. They went to the same junior high, and he was well connected. He had the number! But…he couldn’t give it to me. What!? Dude. I was relentless. He wasn’t sure. He hemmed. He hawed. Finally… “All right, I’ll give it to you, but you CAN NOT let her know I gave it to you.” Fine. I promised.

Ring ring….

“Is Bahama there?”

“Hang on”

“Hi Bahama, This is Max”

“Who?”

“Max, from geometry.”

“Oh,” she said in a wilting way, the way a flower dies, if a flower died in 2 seconds.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go out, maybe to a movie.”

“How’d you get my number?”

“Heath gave it to me.” At his point, I could tell this ship was sinking. Fuck him and my promise.

“Uh, I don’t think so”

“Uhhhhh”

“I have a boyfriend who is in college”

I was thinking to myself, I can’t believe she’s giving me this bullshit. This is such a crock. I know it, she knows it.

She continued, “He lives in [the next town over]“

“”You said he was in college?”

“Yes”

“But, there’s no college in [the next town over].”

“Yeah, well, he lives with his parents, and he drives to college”

“Right. I see. Well, if things go south with your non-existent college boy who lives at home, here’s my phone number.” I said, trying to save what little pride I had left.

For the rest of the year we never spoke again. Never made eye contact. The stinging emotional welt prevented me from looking at her, and I presume, the embarrassment from having to come up with such an obvious fib prevented her for looking at me.

Today, I harbor no ill-will toward Bahama Mama. It must not have been easy for her, either. I hope she is doing well and living in a trailer park in some rural area with her 7 children, and her busted-down pickup truck and her no-good deadbeat of a husband. And her big cans.

The Curious Case of the Bitter Bachelorette

I feel sorry for a woman at work. She’s the type of woman who would get angry at me if she found out I felt sorry for her. Let’s call her BB.

Some background: I don’t know BB very well, but in the limited interactions I’ve had with her, both one-on-one and in group settings, she’s made it abundantly known that she’s never been married and is very interested in changing that status, but has had a hard time finding a suitable mate. To her, suitability means a wealthy guy.

BB is currently dating a guy. I’ve met him on occasion and he seems cool. I have no idea about the size of his bank account, but he seems as well-off as anyone. So far, no real reason to feel sorry for BB. I mean, everyone has his or her motives and who am I to question?

Some additional background: a colleague of ours in the office, Leigh, is almost universally considered beautiful. People who find out where I work have asked about her. Her attractiveness is almost legendary, it seems. (She’s not exactly my type, however). Leigh got married a little while back to a guy. Apparently the guy has been switching jobs a lot recently and Leigh has been paying the household bills.

Leigh and BB apparently had a conversation, wherein BB asked Leigh why she married the guy. A quote from the conversation, Leigh told me, was “You’re young and beautiful, you could have married the richest guy and led any life you want. Why would you choose him?” With the last part said in a way in which implied disappointment. Leigh told me she replied, “Because I fell in love with him,” to which BB dismissed it as a non-legitmate reason.

This is why I feel sorry for BB. She is a really gregarious and otherwise fun person, but this aspect of her is really sad. To her, love is not a legitimate reason to marry.

I wonder what happened to make her this way. I have to believe that, at some point early in her life, she must have been really screwed-over by a guy. That’s the only explanation I can think of to answer why she’s be so jaded on love and relationships. Up to the point I found all this out, I didn’t think she was serious about the money-as-a-prerequisite. It’s no act. It is a prerequisite. And it is sad.

News: Masturbation may prevent prostate cancer

Like I needed any more justification…

From a Yahoo news story (link below):

“Frequent masturbation may help men cut their risk of contracting prostate cancer, Australian researchers have found. It is believed that carcinogens may build up in the prostate if men do not ejaculate regularly, BBC News reported on Wednesday.”

Story Here

Snap Judgements. Does She Pass?

You’ve heard comedians talk about it, but it is true. Within seconds of seeing a woman, a guy has answered the question, “Would I have sex with this woman?” I mean, all is takes is a mere second. Any longer than that and, if the answer is yes, we’re thinking about how she grooms “down there” (for example, “I bet it’s a landing strip”).

Maybe without knowing it, or maybe fully consciously, we place the woman into one of two categories: “Yes, I would do her”, or “Nah, I’ll pass”. For certain guys (the ones who drink) there are three categories and the third falls between the other two; “I’d do her with enough alcohol.”

So, all women fall into one of those three categories. Is it “fair”? No, probably not. Is it “nice”? No way, it is a snap decision based purely on physical appearance. Is it why some women get treated better than others? Yes indeed. I can hear it now, “That’s just rude.” Yes it is. Do we even think about it? No? Why? It is a Floor 2 function. (What’s Floor 2? See this.)

Truth be told, its a spectrum with a dividing line. Some women just fall to the bad side of the line. We can’t find everyone attractive.

In a way, it is like the caste system. It is really hard to move between categories, but it is possible. Jumpers don’t happen often, so how can she move from “I’ll pass” to “I’d do her”? Well, she has to be within reasonable proximity to the dividing line (within jumping distance) and again, it is difficult to jump over, but here’s a couple of ways:

• Personality #1 - she has to have an attractive personality. Just a sweet, fun personality. Someone who is great to just hang around. Not the fastest way to jump the fence, but she’s got the time, it may work.
• Personality #2 - If she seems like she’d be a hell-cat in the sack, she’s likely to get re-categorized if she’s within jumping distance. I’ve heard dudes say that they weren’t that into a chick, but the thing that changed was that she exuded sexuality. Come hither looks. Some revealing clothes. It may sound trampy, but hey, sexy is good.
• Physical changes - No, not a boob job. Well, OK, maybe it is a boob job. Could also be just getting into shape.

So, this is the ugly truth behind the snap judgements. We just make em on Floor 2.

No Eligible Bachelors?

An article on Slate.com appeared the other day about the cause of the lack of desirable, eligible bachelors.

Using Game Theory, the article suggests that the most desirable women tend to be choosy, and wait for the perfect man. Meanwhile, other, less choosy women make a more determined play for the eligible bachelor, and take the man off the market sooner. Over time, the good ones go off market early, leaving the socially awkward, the unattractive, or the otherwise undesireable.

It’s an interesting theory, available here:

http://www.slate.com/id/2188684/