When it comes to the type of women I'm attracted to, just call me Playtex. 'Cause, just like the 18-hour bra, I'm every woman.
Now, don't misunderstand me. I have standards, but the majority of them relate to personality, beliefs and intelligence and not the almighty physical beauty.
In fact, I have only four physical no-nos that will immediately eliminate the torture that is a date with me.
Here are my deal breakers:
No permanent eye patches. Depth perception is important, and if I date you, I will have to hear the story of how it happened every time someone asks.
No drooling while awake. Dogs drool, seals drool, buffalo drool. Not attracted to them, not attracted to a drooler. Drooling while asleep, now that's a different story.
No lisp. I'm not a good person and I will, at some point in the relationship, undertake an elaborate plot to make you say "Thath thuper!"
Finally, if your bra divides your back fat into sections, please look elsewhere. You know what I mean, it's like that string-netting they put around hams.
Other than that, I'm about as picky as a 42-year-old, recently divorced woman who discovers tequila at a "Thunder From Down Under" adult revue.
Curly or straight. Blonde, brunette or black. Thin, curvy, healthy or chubby. Bring it on, 'cause I am Playtex.
In fact, my dating past resembles the mall at a food court. It's got everything, even the girl represented by that weird space ice cream that no one admits they like.
There was the basketball playing blonde, the skinny brown-haired skater, the radical feminist who my friends nicknamed "The Missing Link," the spunky redhead with a temper, country music star Miranda Lambert('s picture) the black-haired beauty with more tattoos than letters in her name (OK four, but that's still kind of a lot) and the hot soccer mom.
Sidenote: I sometimes loosely interpret "dating" as met or touched once. For example, I am currently "dating" my keyboard.
Think of it from an odds standpoint, if you cull down the herd too much before you start hunting, one of two things will happen.
One: You will strike out more times than a Special Olympic baseball team.
Or two: By a stroke of luck, through a blind drunken stupor and despite the odds, you will convince some girl to go out with you, hide your bad habits till she loves you, only to have her sleep with your cousin on prom night after telling all her friends that you kiss like a vacuum cleaner.
Or, uh, so I've been told.
There is however, one other reason for my lack of discrimination when it comes to my type. I look at it through my potential future-baby's-momma's eyes and understand that I'm not going to be considered a prize catch.
One a scale of 1 to hot, I believe I rank at about an "Eh."
Jarid: "Hey you want to have coffee some time?"
Girl that is too good for Jarid: "Eh."
So, by expanding my expectations and placing less emphasis on the physical, I'm hoping to come off as less of a hypocrite.
Some call me easy, I prefer Playtex.
Now all I need to do is work on that 18-hour part.
Now where did I put Cindy's number.
What are your dealbreakers? Tell me.
- Jarid Shipley is a reporter for the Nevada Appeal. Contact him a firstname.lastname@example.org or 881-1217.