"I’m still trying to figure out your type," my friend tells me as we walk past a promoter that I’ve just emphatically acknowledged as too good looking to even be real. I smile, shake my head nonchalantly, and say, "Oh, I don’t really have a type."
The statement is sort of true. I like brown guys, black guys, white guys, ginger guys, native guys, tall guys, short guys, big guys, skinny guys. Since moving to Austin, I’ve even opened my heart to bearded guys.
Despite my adoration of a cornucopia of diverse-looking dudes, I realize that underneath all the skinny jeans and flannel, I do indeed have a type. I have an unequivocal penchant for scraggly, scrappy sweethearts who doze and dream away their days, laid up in hammocks scattered from coast to coast.
Hello, my name is Abby, and I’m addicted to bohemian drifters with broken dreams, distant eyes and empty wallets.
My type is the kind who will play me soft, sultry tunes on the guitar or banjo and tell me long, sad stories about his broken years. The kind who will condescendingly pat me on the head and say I’m too young and innocent to understand what a bad boy he is. The one that's always eager to lap up pitchers of beer — when they’re on my tab.
It’s a type alright. The type that fools you into thinking you can be casual, mimicking his aloof, dismissive nature, and pretending you don’t care about the other girls he has wrapped around his fingers.
Hello, my name is Abby, and I’m addicted to bohemian drifters with broken dreams, distant eyes and empty wallets. That's what I've been attracted to for as long as I can remember, and I get bristly enjoyment from dating this type of guy, the same way I enjoy wincing as I pressure a deep bruise.
You know that last shot of whiskey won’t feel good tomorrow, but it’s so promising and inviting at the moment. Your "type" can be just as toxic.
So, how do you get out of the black hole that is a toxic "type"? Perhaps the answer lies in allowing ourselves to accept dates we typically wouldn’t. Many of us are naturally attracted to the "bad" boys and girls. But the boy or girl next door can have just as many tricks up his or her sleeve.
This spring, try some new types on for size — it can't hurt. The vanilla scoop might have a fudge undercurrent, but you just never know unless you give it a try. I promise to go vanilla a bit, too — here and there — if you will.
