Yeah. THAT gorgeous.
So you can imagine my surprise when he actually writes back?!?! Sending him a message was a total shot in the dark. I scour the internet for promising men, nice looking men, smart, funny, witty, successful men. But I am never on the lookout for hot men. It's just not my style. I think I'm a relatively cute girl. I've got great hair, nice smile, decent body, above average personality. Yes, I know I'm being modest here, but let's face facts: I'm no supermodel. We've already established that I'm your typical girl-next-door who's neither beauty queen nor trailer trash. Yet it still surprises me when a hot guy writes me to lil ol' me.
There is statistical research that people choose mates they feel are on the same level of attractiveness as themselves. Hence beautiful people marry other beautiful people. Average looking people generally couple up. And ugly people simply shouldn't be allowed to procreate.
On internet dating sites, studies have shown that women message / wink at men below their attractiveness level based on a number of other qualities (financial stability, humor, family) and men message / wink at breathtaking women they wouldn't normally have the confidence to approach in real life (for superficial reasons). This disparity means that really pretty girls end up dating really average guys simply because that's who the messages are flying back and forth between. The better looking the guy, the fewer messages he typically receives. Girls are honestly afraid of being rejected by someone they think is cuter than they are. Some of these hotties are genuine Jersey Shore meatheads who don't deserve a second glance anyway (other than possibly posting their picture on your wall for nocturnal lighting purposes.) But other great looking guys are missing out on having a wonderful girlfriend when they truly have more to offer than just a 12 pack washboard abs.
How can you tell which is which? You can't. Hence, shot in the dark. Send a message. Take a chance.
Despite all the research that shows I will most likely end up with a dorky boy at the end of this, I am still holding out for someone I find myself physically attracted to. At least a little. I know that beauty is only a light switch away, but I find making out in the park on a sunny afternoon just as romantic as a starlit stroll on the beach. I don't need a Greek god, just someone I can stand to look at. But this guy is too cute to be true.
His messages are lighthearted, pleasant and intriguing. He writes more than monosyllabic answers to questions I throw at him without giving me his life story in iambic pentameter. He's kind and considerate and asks me to meet him in the city. So I do.
We go for your average sandwich and Snapple in Times Square, which is a bit out of my way if I'm honest. My typical travels are from Penn Station to Chelsea so I hardly spend time in midtown anymore. Yet he insists that we MUST meet in Times Square at this particular bistro and I figure he's got a good reason (like the best grilled cheese on the planet) so that's where we wind up.
What's odd about it is that he keeps glancing at the window. Smiling at strangers both inside and outside the store. I'm as polite and friendly as the next New Yorker (which isn't saying much in the city) but this is ridiculous. Am I missing something?
After 30 minutes of nondescript conversation, I'm ready to be on my way. Granted, he's nice to look at (really nice to look at) but I'm past the staring and drooling phase of dating. While he's the first man I can imagine sleeping with (insert picture of rippling biceps here), this is not a romance novel with Fabio on the cover, it's my life. We've yet to find anything we actually have in common or discover something we both really want to do together. I'm about to thank him for his time when we step out of the shop and I realize what he (and the rest of Manhattan) has been staring at throughout our lunch. It's a 40 foot billboard of a drop-dead gorgeous guy in his underwear.
Correction: MY DATE in his underwear.
Every part of him (and I do mean every part) is larger than life. His chest is a perfect specimen of Roman architecture. His arms should be featured on the cover of Men's Health magazine (and probably have been.) His face is gleaming in the sunlight for all of 42nd street to see. And the tiny trail of dark hair leading down his tummy towards his Calvin Kleins heads right towards his...
Well, use your imagination.
"They didn't airbrush me at all you know."
He stares up at the advertisement waiting for me to comment. Say something, Kimberly, anything. Say anything please!!! But I can't. There are no words for this moment. I am completely and utterly speechless.
"My junk looks huge, right?"
Ho. Ly. Crap.
I think this is why I should stick to nerds.