I drank again last night. Sixes and Sevens is a bad influence. My night started off relatively healthy. I went to the gym, ran 3.4 miles on a 3% incline, came home and hopped in the shower. Then I got a text that said, “Wine? Champagne?” Damn you evil temptress. I was doing so well!
I grabbed my booze and my dogs, and went over to her place, stopping to bang on the King of the Dog Park’s window on the way. He opened it up and said he would meet me at Sixes and Seven’s house shortly. All of this drinking ensured that I would get home late, drunk, and be late for work today. But, it was a good thing. Driving to work an hour later than my usual time, I stopped at a red light downtown. I looked to my right and saw two men of the blue collar variety standing on the sidewalk talking to another guy whose face I couldn’t see.
These two guys were the hottest specimen I’ve seen in this city since I moved here. I wish I had my camera because I would have most definitely taken a picture. I seriously could not stop looking. Of course, it got the little squirrel in my brain thinking about something.
Growing up in Connecticut, and hanging out in the bars and clubs in New York City and Long Island, good looking men outnumbered the rodents in the city. Every night out yielded a handful of phone numbers from men who I would juggle for months to come. I then moved to Atlanta, and while the general look of Atlantans was different, there were still many hot men to feast the eyes on.
Then I moved here. Hollywood for the ugly. Why are we all so unattractive? I just don’t get it. Am I hanging out in the wrong places? Is it the whole city or just pockets? And good lord, am I becoming ugly by osmosis? I’m really at a loss. By New York City standards, the guys this morning would have blended in. Both about 6 feet tall, light to medium brown hair, one with some unshaven scruff, rough in a take-me-tame-me way, and not manorexic. They spend time at the gym without getting bulky and steroided up. They have the look that they actually play sports instead of watching them on t.v. They stand out in a city washed with “sameness” enough for me to slam on my brakes and stare without fear of getting caught.
When I moved here, my definition and standard of what was good looking changed without my knowledge or approval. The guys in D.C. fall into a few categories. Either he is the nerdy hipster with the trademark black frame glasses who looks like he hasn’t washed his clothes since “Like a Virgin” was number 1, or he’s the politico who spends too much time at the office going bald and not spending enough time exercising off his pot belly. If he doesn’t fall into one of the two above categories, then he has most likely become metrosexual. By process of elimination, I embraced the metrosexual look. I liked the guy who paid attention to what he looked like, bought the Seven jeans, and generally acted a bit gay when appropriate. But that hasn’t worked out so well for me. I just can’t emasculate the man I’m with. And the other types? Well, I’m just not the hipster kind of girl. And the politico? No thanks. I’ll choose celibacy.
But seeing this guy this morning just reminded me where I came from, what I grew up finding attractive and the kind of guy who I am most suited to be with. It’s more workman with toolbelt and less suits and briefcases. It’s more driving an F350 to work and less bike riding with the backpack in tow. It’s more Dane Cook, and less Buddy Holly, Carson Daly or Chris Robinson.
Aah, Dane Cook.