What Is Your Type … and Why Do You Even Have One?

I have a bunch of single friends and I, aspiring to be cupid when and if I can, am always attempting to fix them up. More often than not, however, after I’ve offered up a descriptor or a photo, I am rejected firmly with a “Sorry, not my type.”

This reminds me of a story from back in my band-on-the-road days. Our keyboard player was very talented but a bit of an odd duck socially. He was always trying to find a girlfriend so I once asked the bandleader what A’s type was. He responded with a laugh “His type? Two arms, two legs, that’s his type!”

So when people now talk to me about type I think … why? Why do you have a type? Why have you narrowed your pond to just the goldfish and the angelfish? Have you ever tried a different school? Oh my Cod, if you haven’t then please let minnow why not? Did you lobster and never flounder? You hate shrimpy dudes? You’re not interested in a crab with no sole?

Okay I apologize.

But I just don’t get it. And so I want to float this idea by you.

Okay sorry again. Please … don’t tuna me out here.

Why have a type? Why limit yourself before even starting? Why not approach every prospective suitor as the individual they are, get to know them and THEN decide if they are your type?

My pal G definitely had a type. Tall, thin, pretty – that was his type. When he met F he liked her immediately. They shared interests, ideals, passions and senses of humour. And she was damn pretty. But F wasn’t tall or slim. She wasn’t fat either but he described her as “chunky”.

So even though it was obvious she was totally into him and he totally enjoyed her company he back-burnered her completely when R came along. Because R was his type. He was SO going to explore a romance with R because she was tall and slim. That was his type.

What G didn’t factor in was that R was also haughty, self-absorbed and demanding. Like seriously demanding. And when, after a few months, all of those delightful traits came to light G hoofed it out of there as fast as he could and guess where he ended up? Yep … back with F.

Guess where he still is 6 years later. With F. He is happy as a clam (oops, sorry again) with F and they are making a pretty fantastic life together.

I say “Yay G” because he learned an incredibly valuable lesson and for most dudes past the age of, say, 35, that is virtually impossible. He learned that his “type” was not the be-all and end-all. Sure it might be a starting point but it can just easily be an ending point if your “type” doesn’t factor in at least a hundred variables.

P also had a type. Back in high school P only wanted to date the good-looking dudes. The popular boys. The jocks. She was a damn pretty girl and she had her pick. Never mind that M totally adored her and was pretty much her best buddy. No way she was going to date M because he had a big nose. And he was super smart and maybe a little geeky. Nope … she was going to date the super-cute dude and in fact not only date the super-cute dude but marry the super-cute dude. See ya later, M!

Until many years and a few children later she discovered that super-cute dude was cheating on her. Pretty much all over town. But not before M had resurfaced. After a couple of decades and a burst of newfound technology M showed up in her inbox. What a surprise! His nose was still big. So was his bank account. And his lifestyle. His job. M’s world was fucking huge because he had made a huge success of his brainy geekiness.

They never did end up together even though P did leave super-cute dude. M too was married and that was that. But P told me wistfully that it would always be a regret. She would always regret choosing her “type” over honest exploration and discovery.

And then there’s me. Yeah, I know, there’s always me.

I was playing at a bar in my twenties, middle of August, deathly hot. It was an old hotel so not much AC. During one of our breaks I was chatting with the bartender about the heat and I said “You know what I need up in my room is a fan. I need a fan!”

And the dude sitting alone a few seats away started to clap. He just started to slowly clap while his eyes remained glued to the television.

I was feeling pretty bold because I had just spend exactly 7 minutes chatting with the best-looking dude in the room who had turned out to be not only extremely handsome but extremely boring so I strutted over to clapping-guy and exclaimed “Why are you clapping?”

“You said you needed a fan,” he replied sardonically. “Here I am.”

Hilarious.

Long story short we spent some time talking, he invited me out to dinner, I accepted (hey, I was a poor musician and free dinners were magnificent!) and we ended up dating for almost a year. I can assure you clapping-boy was not my type at all. Best-looking dude was my type. Until I actually got to know them both.

Can you spell tables-turned?

So if you are single and still searching for your type, I ask you to write down ALL of those attributes and then … throw that paper in the trash can. Because trust me, you truly have no idea what the heck your type is until you fall in love with him.

I’m 5’6″. I still like high heels so the possibility exists that on date night I will be 5’9″. For this very reason, back in my on-line dating days, I never even considered anyone under that height. Ever. Even the guys who said “Hey it won’t matter in bed!” … hugely funny and please read that with sarcasm dripping.

This was a ridiculous choice when I remember that one of the great loves of my life was 5’8″. Well he would argue 5’8.5″ but whatever. He was no basketball player and yet I adored him. And since then I have adored other vertically-challenged dudes. Oops … was that politically correct?

What I mean is I thought my type was “tall” but maybe it is not?

I also enjoyed (sometimes) a 2 year relationship with a tee-totaling vegetarian. Yes me, the certifiable lush who delights in ripping barbecued flesh from the bone learned how to drink tea and cook tofu.

Sorry. That was a lie. I did learn how to cook tofu. Whilst drinking wine. Because as we know, in every relationship compromise is key.

My point is that dude was tall. But he wasn’t other things. And eventually other things got in the way.

And then there’s my darling ex. Of British extraction and I spent so much time in England, a country with merit but not exactly my soul’s home, visiting his family and wondering if our child would also have bad teeth, I vowed my next lover would be Italian! British is just not my type!!

Guess what? My current lover is …

British. And I mean the real deal with the accent and everything. And guess what else? We go to England every year to visit family.

And guess what else?

I like it. I like England and I like his family and I like visiting and then, well sometimes we … hop over to Italy.

My point is … I gave up. On types. I gave up on criteria. I logged on to exploration and discovery and POSSIBILITY and I gave up on any other guidelines.

Henceforth I solemnly swear that the only type I shall entertain is the type I type when I type this blog.

The ocean is FULL of fish.

Please do not carp if you can’t reel in your type. Expand your net. Adjust your perch. Scale different heights. Don’t trout …

Okay … you know I meant pout and now I think I’m done with horrible puns.
Seriously … try something different. Something new. Something against type.

Just for the halibut.

About winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Writing is therapy. Wine is therapy. Writing while drinking wine is the best therapy. Reading while drinking can also be fun. Thanks for stopping by. ~Vickie
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