Well here is something completely expected: it's Valentine's Day ... and I am celebrating it with myself. (Double entendre not intended, although come to think of it, it'd be one of the better gifts I ever got.) As anyone who reads this blog with any regularity knows, I am not a fan of the "love" thing. Not a fan of the relationships. Above all, not a fan of the compromising, which explains the first two.
And I have a sneaking suspicion, based on things my dear friends told me in complete confidence (editor's note: never tell secrets to a woman who has a gossip blog; it's like giving a steak to a rottweiler and saying "Watch that for me, will you?") that I am not alone. Because it has come to my attention that some of you ... all right, a lot of you ... okay ALMOST EVERY GODDAM ONE OF YOU ... are attracted to the wrong men. The bad boys. The rebels. The thugs. Whatever your generation calls them, they are all the same thing:
What you do not realize when you're young is that this allure is designed for their benefit, not yours. Those pheromones that get your pulse racing are the same pheromones that will render them unable to A) hold down a job B) be faithful to you C) ever make enough money to provide the lifestyle you deserve. Or even pay the cable bill on a consistent basis.This does not make for future happy Valentine's days. Or future happy anything.
Here is a poignant anecdote that reveals the exact moment my life went off the rails: A top-secret number of years ago, I went to university with a quiet, nerdy young man who wore his pants too high around the waist. I instantly dismissed him as "boring."
I preferred the rogues, the rebels, the shit-disturbers who, had I been a psych major instead of a Lit and Fine Arts major, I would have immediately recognized as jerks destined for a messy life requiring a steady, dependable enabler.
That nerdy young man went on to become known as Mike Lazaridis, blazillionaire inventer of the BlackBerry. (*Hi Mikie! I'm available now!*) I went on to become an increasingly bitter yet strangely irresistible double-divorcee.
Don't get me wrong, in the end I emerged victorious. Maybe even fabulous. But it was a long and bumpy journey. So, to spare your heart and your bladder that bumpiness and to ensure you are in your right mind for the deadly Valentine's charade, here's a test to help you figure out where you stand on the Jerk Detector scale. It's very simple:
- If you find ANYONE in the top row of photos attractive, you are doomed.
- If you find MOST of the men in the bottom row attractive, there is hope.
- And if you find the photo at the top of this blog attractive, well congratulations on your excellent taste but don't hold your breath. He's mine. All mine.
TOP ROW: AVOID!
BOTTOM ROW: FULL-STEAM AHEAD!