You love romantic comedies. Particularly the ones where the lead has a really serious job, but is incredibly handsome and funny. And also deeply moral, but isn’t afraid to laugh at himself. And has tattoos. And is a feminist. And can box. And can speak fluent French. And is good with babies. A man so ideal, he could never exist in real life… WAIT.
You’re so torn about what you want in a man. On the one hand, you like things to be unpredictable. Someone who inexplicably wears no trousers while he does the housework, for example, but will then commence foreplay with the sentence, “I have a use for you.” On the other, you would also like to be read bedtime stories and take selfies with him and the dog.
You’ve started taking dance lessons. And piano lessons. And singing lessons. A sudden keenness on minimalism and jazz (it’s very exciting) has emerged. You practice your tap while you’re cooking. And you try to look sad in photos. More flattering.
You were in love with your professor at university. You had long, private tutorials where you discussed the complex self-awareness of the seduction and fictiveness of words. He would read you Catullus love poems. You would wear increasingly tight t-shirts with phrases like ‘YES’ across them. He suddenly got moved to another university and you went out with that stupid boy who did economics and came onto your flatmate.
You like to post pictures of sunsets on Instagram. Your Pinterest account is just full of exquisite photos of roses with dew on them, amazing Canadian trees and Japanese waterfalls. You always have painted nails and matching underwear and your house is so tidy that you can never tell when the cleaner’s been.