“WHERE’S A MACY’S?” he yelled, hurling me off my bed and out of my sleepy drunk state.
It’s 6 a.m., I’m tired as hell, and there’s a 24-year-old werewolf of a man asking me where he can find a Macy’s. So he can buy sheets.
Because he wet my bed.
I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Not eight hours before, he looked me straight in the face and said: “Just so you know, I’ve had 13 concussions. So I’m basically retarded.”
He slugged back his Bud Light, gave me the “still in?” eyes, and I took him to my apartment.
He was a dumbass. But he wasn’t the first dumbass I’ve brought home, and he probably won’t be the last.
I’d like to think I’m a pretty intelligent lady. I graduated with a 4.0 and haven’t even once mixed up “meet” and “meat.” (Yes, I really did date a guy who mixed those up. Repeatedly.)
I have a standard type: Beefy, athletic (former lacrosse stars, get at me), and conventionally attractive. They drink too much, talk too loudly, and are generally fun, obnoxious people that I’d never introduce to my mom.
But last week, as I dropped $60 on dry cleaning, $25 on a new mattress pad, and five hours of my life clearing out the urine stench from my apartment with a bucket of bleach and an oversized vanilla bean candle, I really stopped to wonder: Why do I love meatheads?
I know I won’t marry, or will ever, ever call them my boyfriend. (Can I get an amen, commitment-fearing millennials?) But I just can’t help it. I love ‘em.
I think it’s because I am in a constant state of worry-panic. I worry about everything, anything, all the time: work, friends, family, my body, my Google search history, ISIS, not trying hard enough, trying too hard, working too much, not working enough.
My mind is an obnoxiously talkative, stressful place to be. And meatheads are my salvation.
Their half-functioning brains force mine to slow down.
You talk too fast.
You worry too much.
Sometimes, you tell a story and I don’t even know what you’re saying.
They erase all of the worries and stresses and make me think about the here and now, and would I like another drink? (Yes.)
Am I intimidated by smart men? Maybe. But it’s more that I find them…bland. Work? Blah. Money? Blah. Stress? Blah. I don’t want to hear about a guy’s stress of working for the man and no, I don’t give a shit what Wall Street looks like a 3 a.m. I have enough stress of my own. Gym, beers, boobs? Done.
Somewhere in the depths of my very dark soul, I know these boys never really know me. I mean, I’m sure as hell not going to marry a guy who still identifies as a retired college athlete, chugs dollar beers on a Tuesday, and grunts more than he speaks. But they’re fun, easy going, and don’t cause me pain. Love is a bitch, after all.
And maybe one day I’ll sack up and find man who doesn’t measure life in bench weight. Maybe even one who has a stable job and stellar bladder control. But he sure as hell better have one hairy chest. .
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