Marvelous Misadventures

The Enthusiast

 
 

There’s a fine line between passion and obsession, and The Enthusiast is all too happy to cross it, to feed the fire of an all-consuming hobby or interest bordering on the maniacal. Think Jimmy Fallon’s character in Fever Pitch – an uber-fan of the Red Sox whose every waking thought is hyper-focused on baseball.

How to spot him:

• So fixated is he on his passion that he has trouble maintaining a conversation that doesn’t include a mention of it
• With the fervency of a televangelist and an unholy gleam in his eye, he’ll unflaggingly attempt to convince you that [insert interest here] is the best thing since sliced bread
• He will take it as a personal affront and adopt a deeply wounded expression if you poke fun at his interest or present an opposing point of view

You date The Enthusiast for a reason. Passion is a seriously attractive thing, and when a man is that enamoured with something, you wonder where else he might direct that laser focus. The problem – and it’s often an insurmountable one – is that The Enthusiast has but one true love, and you will never move ahead of it on his priority list, no matter how captivating you are. You might date him for a season before you tire of your supporting role in his life and heart, but rarely a lifetime.

I once had a first – and last – date with The Enthusiast. Initially, I profiled him as a Sexy Nerd with a strong interest in The Lord of the Rings. Now I’m a self-admitted nerd girl with a true appreciation for sci-fi and fantasy, both books and film, so I’m not put off by a LOTR mention or two. But it quickly became apparent that he dwelled in an alternate reality co-ruled by his idols, Tolkien and filmmaker Peter Jackson.

When I mentioned that I had once worked with Jackson’s production company, Weta Workshop, as publicist for a children’s television series they were co-producing with a Canadian partner, the way he looked at me made my skin crawl. Like he could absorb my loose association with Jackson by osmosis. He proceeded to wax lyrical about the short film he’d been honing for years – an elfin love story set in (where else?) Middle Earth. At this point in a date that was quickly headed for bizzaro territory, I knew I had zero desire to become his leading lady. In fact, I would rather brave the perils of the fictional Mordor. But I knew it was time for the time-honoured “tuck and roll” when he stared at me intently and asked if I had ever acted.

Come to think of it, my closing line – “Well, it was really nice to meet you, but I have to head out as I have an early day at work tomorrow” – was fairly Oscar-worthy.

The Bartender

Every girl loves a bartender, and it’s not just because he’s a master of mixology. It’s the confidence and swagger that comes with that mastery. When he’s behind the bar slinging drinks, he’s in a position of comfort and power. Mixed with a ready smile and a handsome face (think Tom Cruise in Cocktail), it’s a heady concoction that leaves you both shaken and stirred.

How to spot him:

• He’s a social anthropologist and armchair psychologist, with an open and steady gaze that makes you want to divulge your deepest, darkest secrets
• He’s professionally friendly, accustomed to being chatted up by tipsy women from all walks of life
• In most cases, he's an edgy pretty boy - a fallen-angel type whose ink and scruff save him from the burden of perfection (but won't save you from falling for him)
• He’s the ultimate player – able to juggle bottles and babes with equal aplomb

You date The Bartender for a reason (a hottie who can mix a perfect martini – hello!) or a season. It’s a bit like hooking up with a rock star – a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that’s intoxicatingly fun and dangerous. But heed the warning on the label: Flirtation is in his job description, so if a woman wants to tangle with The Bartender she’ll need confidence, style and wits that aren’t dulled by alcohol.

Shortly after I turned 19, I dated The Bartender. The stereotypical ingénue, I was easy-picking prey for a master manipulator. I was one of many, but in my youthful naivete, thought he was The One. It was a recipe for disaster – the kind that leaves you with the bittersweet aftertaste of an Amaretto Sour.

After that experience, I learned to treat The Bartender much like a wild animal at the zoo; a gorgeous specimen that is fascinating to observe, but best done so from the other side of a protective barrier (in this case, a bar).

 

Mr.Teacher

 

Almost every girl has harboured a secret crush on a male teacher at some point in her academic career – grade school, high school, college or university. But girlish daydreams and the dynamics of dating a teacher as a grown woman are two different things. Mr. Teacher spends his day shaping young minds – something that makes him both authoritarian and master manipulator. And you can be sure he’ll have a curriculum and lesson plan in place to guide your dating life and shape you into his ideal date/girlfriend/prospective wife. Question is, will you respond as the model student, the class clown or the rebellious bad girl?

How to spot him:

• His wardrobe consists of buttondown shirts, polos and khakis – a uniform that says ‘I’m friendly, approachable and trustworthy yet professional’
• He speaks with practiced diction and even texts in full sentences with proper capitalization and punctuation
• He’s a grammar cop and won’t hesitate to correct you for even the most minor infraction
• In generations past, he was easily identified by the red pen and lingering scent of chalk on his hands. But the modern incarnation is tougher to identify through visual cues – look deeper to spot his constrasting expression of the superior and the downtrodden

Many women date Mr. Teacher for a reason: They appreciate his do-gooder nature and dedication to a noble profession. He’s educated, responsible and is comfortable around kids/young people – he screams husband and father material. But whether a woman dates Mr. Teacher for a season or a lifetime depends on what kind of woman she is. If she’s strong-willed, she may find that his innate inability to turn off the teacher in him too grating to warrant an extended amount of time in his presence.

As someone with a deep, abiding love of literature and history, who was dubbed The Dictionary in high school and has been known to be something of a grammar cop herself at times, I always assumed I would be a great match for Mr. Teacher. But following a recent dating interlude with an elementary school English teacher, I was forced to reconsider.

At first, the witty repartee was thrilling. Since he had pursued his education late in life following a career as a tradesman, he had broad interests and perspectives to share. But it soon became clear that he had a chip on his shoulder about his delayed academic pursuits, as though he were driven to catch up and surpass others in his age bracket; it figured prominently and frequently in our conversations.

And then he did the unthinkable. While he was a fan of my writing (and even this blog), he began to gently point out grammatical errors, such as beginning a sentence with a preposition (see the previous sentence as an example). Now, I’m not someone who can’t shoulder criticism of my work. As a former journalist, I’ve been bludgeoned (and humbled) by the slashing red pens of editors more times than I count – and it’s made me a stronger writer. But it’s a personal quirk of mine to start a sentence with a preposition. I love how it looks. And the emphasis it lends. The fact that he couldn’t see the difference between the strict confines of scholarly writing and the looser rules of creative writing (as well as the fact that I was not one of his students) bothered me.

It all went downhill from there, leading to a few lacklustre dates that even the no-longer-quite-as-witty repartee couldn’t save. I eventually stopped calling and texting him in a classic, typically male avoidance measure. But instead of getting the hint and letting it drop, he decided to call me – and call me on my poor behaviour. “I know that it’s common practice these days for people to just stop calling, but that’s not how I roll, and I wasn’t about to let you get away with it that easily,” he said, his voice laced with the chiding tone reserved for dealing with difficult students. “So, can I assume there’s been a loss of, shall we say…intrigue?”

That last word sealed the deal for me. He could have said interest. He could have said attraction. But intrigue? His voice even rose rather creepily as he said it. Shudder. It made me feel icky – and glad to be well rid of him. But I can’t say I didn’t learn anything from the experience, so credit to Mr. Teacher on that one.

The Epicurean

Food has the power to connect people – it’s a language as simple and universal as love. The Epicurean is certainly connected, but simple he is not. He’s sophisticated, opinionated – with a fervent passion that will leave you longing for another morsel of the gastronomic delights he serves up on an artfully arranged platter.

How to spot him:
• His Facebook and Twitter feeds are full of food-centric status updates and photos/Twitpics of gourmet dishes, the fine wines that complement them and the celebrity chefs who create them
• Your dates and conversations revolve around food and the latest restaurants
• When you teasingly call him a “foodie,” he tsks and calls you pedestrian in an "I'm annoyed but trying to pull off amused and tolerant" tone
• He whisks you away on sojourns to far-flung locales that ooze romance, but make no mistake, he's there for the cuisine and you are but garnish

You are initially attracted to The Epicurean because of his passion, his air of refinement and his cultured persona. But unless you're cut of the same epicurious cloth as Joanne Kates, you will likely date him for a only a season before you begin to view that passion as pomposity.

I went on a handful of dates with The Epicurean. At first, I enjoyed the whirlwind tour of Toronto's finest dining establishments - brunch at Scaramouche, dinner at Julien, drinks at Bymark. But I quickly grew weary of the food talk, his culinary snobbery and his singular focus on haute cuisine.

Turns out, you can have too much of a good thing. And truth be told, as much as I appreciate the finer things in life, there are times that I crave the down-home, simple comfort of a burger or slice of pizza.

In my humble opinion, it matters not whether there is a chichi meal, bone china, crisp linens, crystal goblets and a trio of Michelin stars at the table, but whether I like who I'm sharing it with. Food may bring people together, but it's conversations and true connection that feed our souls.

 

Mr. Agency

 
If you work in or adjacent to the seedy underworld of communications, media, marketing and design, you’ve encountered Mr. Agency. He fancies himself a heady mix of Don Draper and Don Juan – a man who likes his martinis dry and his women willing. In reality, he’s a puffed-up poseur whose mannerisms and maddening know-it-all attitude will work your last nerve.

How to spot him:

• He wears black-rimmed glasses (often sans prescription) as a fashion accessory designed to project an aura of soulful intellect
• He sports an extreme side-part – a nod to Draper that somehow comes off as Eddie Haskell slimy instead of slick
• His work wardrobe includes a collection of skinny ties, pointy black dress shoes, sweater vests and Polos, with Lacoste golf shirts and skinny jeans for casual Fridays
• Depending on his rank within the agency, he either oozes smarmy charm and a perpetual look of ennui (Mr. Agency Senior) or smacks you in the face with his pompous attitude and sense of entitlement (Mr. Agency Junior)

I’ve often wondered who dates Mr. Agency – reason, season or (God help her) lifetime. I’ve spent roughly half of my career in agency roles, with the other half spent as either a media contact or client. This has afforded me relative cushion against falling into Mr. Agency’s clutches, and plenty of opportunity to observe him in his natural habitat. And let me tell you – if you saw the way he works a boardroom, there’s no way you’d let him into your bedroom, or your heart.

Trouble is, Mr. Agency is an expert communicator, and you can be sure he’s got a fully fleshed out plan for marketing himself to you. My advice: Do your own cost-benefit analysis, poke holes in the empty taglines and marketingspeak he delivers, and in general don’t trust a man who’s more meticulously groomed than you are – unless he’s gay and your stylist.

The Cub

 

For every woman out there who prefers to date an older, more experienced man, there’s one who favours playing the role of Mrs. Robinson to a fresh-faced Ben Braddock. The cub is a man-child on the cusp of coming into his own, brimming with potential and possibilities. She falls for that potential; he falls for the breathtaking adventure of conquering a real woman. A fair trade.

How to spot him:

• You feel like a younger, sexier, more confident version of yourself when you’re around him
• He understands only a fraction of the pop culture references you make, depending on which past decade is currently enjoying a fashion/music revival
• He seeks; you know. He craves; you anticipate. The chemistry is crazy, and you complement one another – in bed and out
• You find yourself bumping up his age by a couple of years  to avoid the dreaded “cougar” designation

You date The Cub for a reason and a season, but rarely for a lifetime – unless you beat the May-December romance odds, in which case, I salute you.

As someone who has always looked younger than my age, I’ve dated my fair share of Cubs. It started with my first boyfriend, who was a year younger than me. In high school years, it may as well have been a decade. I was 16, with my driver’s licence and my own car; he wasn’t old enough to drive yet. I had to drive on all of our dates, much to my old-fashioned father’s eternal consternation. But I found it empowering. I got to decide when it was time to go home. I was never waiting in the dark, looking out my window for his car. I never had to worry that I’d be stranded on the side of the road for not wanting to “put out.”

Given that experience at an impressionable age, it only stands to reason that during the first couple of years after the crumbling of my marriage – a dark period when I felt anything but in control –I’d revert emotionally to a time when I’d felt empowered. And so began the Cub Quest, a stretch of time where I dated the men I felt I’d missed out on during my married 20s. It became a running joke amongst my friends, who lived vicariously through my misadventures. It all came to a head one summer when I dated a med student who I’d thought was in his late 20s, only to discover several dates in that he was – ahem – 23.

Doogie Howser, as my friends and colleagues affectionately dubbed him, and I parted ways when he went back to school in September. After that, I adopted the “half your age, plus seven” rule; and when that still felt a bit creepy, decided that potential suitors should be in the same age decade as me.

But oh, those summer nights. (Cue Grease medley).

 

 

 

Mr. Married

In all of Douche-dom, there's no subspecies of man more insidious - or more pervasive - than Mr. Married. But unless he has a set of clubs and a bank account to rival Tiger Woods', Mr. Married doesn't typically have a long line of cocktail waitresses, failed models and prostitutes looking to audition for the role of Mistress. So why and how do attractive, intelligent and accomplished women find themselves tangled in Mr. Married's web of deception with alarming regularity?

I blame it on the Sparkle Effect. Whether we're hopeless romantics or jaded realists, every woman wants a little sparkle in her life. And Mr. Married is only too happy to oblige - because it suits his selfish purposes. As Sex and the City's Carrie once lamented: "I get TV Guy...and Bank of Madrid Lady? She gets Sparkle Guy."

Sparkle Guy is hard to resist in all his blindingly shiny glory. He might as well be the Old Spice Guy on a horse, that's how perfect he seems. And we desperately want to believe the golden fairy tale he's spinning for us, because it's just...so...sparkly.

But as Shakespeare once quipped, all that glitters is not gold. Scratch beneath the veneered surface of that Dorian Gray-esque portrait that Mr. Married's hand-painted for you, and you'll discover the decrepit ugliness of the lies he weaves for both you and his wife.

How to spot him:

• You can date him for months without receiving an invite to his home - your place is closer, his roommate is a slob, he's in the middle of renos
• He absently touches his left hand (where his wedding band should be) often
• He regularly opens his mouth as if to say something and then shuts it quickly ("My wife" being the words he swallows back)
• He's quick to say "I love you" - because that's what you want to hear and he doesn't have to fear what it means for Your Future (there isn't one)

There's a certain type of woman who attracts Mr. Married, and she's weak enough to date him, wittingly or unwittingly, for a reason. She might be a powerhouse, a force to be reckoned with, in her professional life. But in her romantic relationships? She's Ms. Second Place, willing to push her own needs aside to focus on his. Mr. Married sees this, as well as her need for sparkle, and uses both to his advantage.

I've been that woman. It took years of introspection, and a dose of self-loathing (swallowed in bitter pill form) for me to realize why I kept attracting Mr. Marrieds. It was my willingness to cast myself as Ms. Second Place - and to accept the role. This, coincidentally, is the same fatal flaw that has attracted several iterations of The Two-Headed Man, The Jellyfish and The Douche.

My most poignant - and painful - encounter with Mr. Married came two years ago. He was a blonde, blue-eyed Brit, a Jude Law look-alike with the same rakish charm and sexy accent as his doppleganger. Ours was an intercontinental romance - stolen days in Paris and German wine country. I mean, come on! It was the stuff Shakespearian tragedies are made of. How was I, a romantic who wears her heart on her poet's sleeve, to resist?

With the benefit and clarity of hindsight, I can't blame him for how we got together. I chose not to look deeper than the veneer. I chose to remain in the bubble we co-created, a mythical land of love at first sight populated by rainbows and unicorns. I chose to remain blind to the fact that there was, could be, no future for us.

I can - and do - blame him for the way things ended: in blindingly painful emotional flames, the embers of which still burn in the pit of my stomach. The dull-edged pain is a reminder of who I allowed myself to become - Ms. Second Place - and who I really am; a woman who is and deserves better than what Mr. Married or Sparkle Guy could give me.

 

 

The Two-Headed Man

Dating in your 30s inevitably means that the people you date have “A Past.” Sometimes that past colours, overshadows or even eclipses the present. And that murky environment is prime breeding ground for The Two-Headed Man.

The Two-Headed Man is a misshapen creature that, by choice or by circumstance, can’t let go of his past. The spectre of a former girlfriend or wife hangs like an albatross around his neck, stunting his emotional healing and the opportunity for growth in your relationship. Sometimes that girlfriend or wife hangs around his neck in 3-D reality, wanting to re-stake her claim.

How to spot him:

• He speaks often of the aforementioned ex-girlfriend or ex-wife, sometimes negatively and sometimes wistfully

 

• There are traces of her in his life and his home – a photo or letter tucked away on a bookshelf, a bottle of perfume under the bathroom sink, a pair of socks in his sock drawer, an earring in the bowl he uses for his keys and spare change

 

• He embodies the clichéd phrase “once bitten, twice shy,” and is reluctant or unwilling to open up emotionally, make a commitment or trust a woman other than his mother

 

You date The Two-Headed Man for a reason (perhaps, like me, you have a Heroine Complex) or a season (if your stores of patience and understanding are sparse).

But if you’re looking to date The Two-Headed Man for a lifetime, be forewarned: You’re in for a battle – often a losing one. You’ll need nerves of steel, the patience of a saint, the strategy of a general and an unwavering belief in your own self-worth to make it to the other side of the battlefield with your heart and sanity intact.

Over the years, I’ve dated several iterations of The Two-Headed Man – that Heroine Complex at play. I’ve made the tactical error of serving as confidante and therapist in an effort to “fix” the broken. I’ve advanced three paces only to be forced to retreat by ten. I’ve fielded desperate phone calls, Facebook messages and emails from ex-girlfriends and ex-wives.

For all of my experience, I’ve only ever wanted to keep but one of my broken toy soldiers. And he was more than worth crawling belly down across an emotional minefield for.

But as with any battle, sometimes, you have to know when to stand down. So I was forced to sit in love’s trenches, allowing him to fight his own battle, and waiting for word of the outcome.

The Sexy Nerd

Nerds have been long been fodder for film and television – everyone loves an underdog. But Geekdom’s popularity meter is getting a boost from modern incarnations like Glee, a phenomenon that has everyone from band camp rejects to hipsters proclaiming “I’m a Gleek!”

The Sexy Nerd is a millennial twist on the classic archetype – a contradiction in terms that both confounds and charms women. Sometimes he’s the jock who embraces his inner nerd by joining show choir. Other times he’s the math genius whose natural magnetism makes numbers hot. Whatever his story, he’s a guy who attracts you first on an intellectual level, then evokes a latent-response physical attraction that shocks you.

How to spot him:

· He possesses the lanky, bespectacled magnetism of Galen Weston Jr. – it shouldn’t work, but somehow, it does.

· He’s awkward and inept in social settings, but proves to be a skilled and inventive lover when you get him alone.

· He’s an enthusiast – mixing nerdy interests like gaming and geo-caching with manlier pursuits like extreme sports.

Sometimes your intellectual crush or bad timing can push The Sexy Nerd into the Friend Zone before visceral attraction kicks in. At worst, you end up with a friend for life. But if the stars align, you’ll have a lover worth dating – and loving – for a lifetime.

I once dated The Sexy Nerd, albeit for a season. Initially, he came off as a bit of a player – he owned a sports car (which he took to car shows, bless him) and looked like a sun-kissed surfer boy. But the light that came into his eyes as we uncovered our mutual love of Discovery Channel programming and Nat Geo documentaries made me view him in a different light.

Over time, the initial flame of attraction warmed to the steady glow of friendship, fuelled by the discovery that we were too much alike. That’s when he felt comfortable enough to reveal the deeper facets of his inner nerd to me, like the scaled model of The Titantic he’d been painstakingly building and hand-painting for years. Yes, years. That kind of focus and commitment is sexy, even if the model building is painfully nerdy.

Yes, The Sexy Nerd is an intriguing study of contrasts.

The Ball-less Wonder

There are some women who have earned themselves a metaphorical set of balls. They’re tough, with a take-no-prisoners attitude and steely nerve the U.S. Marines would admire. Conversely, there are some men who – though possessing the basic physical equipment – are sadly lacking the cojones that divide the men from the boys. The Ball-less Wonder is a spineless Yes Man, the ultimate people-pleaser – he will bend over backwards to avoid conflict. He’s a mouse of a man unable to take a stand or voice a divisive opinion.

How to spot him: 

• You’ll never hear decisive words leave his lips – yes, no. He’s non-committal and wishy-washy (the better to avoid conflict, my dear)
• The phrases “grow a pair” and “man up” bubble up inside you whenever you’re around him
• Even if someone wrongs him or those close to him, he’ll have his chapstick at the ready for some ass-kissing

There are a bevy of ill-advised reasons that you date The Ball-less Wonder, especially if you have balls of your own. Maybe you're bored and need a pet project. Maybe it's your mothering instinct in overdrive. Or maybe he appeals to your need to always be in the driver's seat. Maybe you should get a dog instead, because to attach yourself to The Ball-less wonder for a season or a lifetime is sure to drive you batty.

A close friend of mine – and owner of metaphorical balls of steel – is in a long-term relationship with a Ball-less Wonder (who also happens to be a Mama’s Boy). He constantly finds himself playing the rope in a tug-of-war between his friends and girlfriend. It’s a mess of his own making, and comes down to his innate inability to man up. 

His friends don’t like his girlfriend. The feeling is mutual. Said friends are always disrespecting her and undermining her position in his life. He tries to keep the peace by largely ignoring their actions and comments and offering placating-yet-empty words to his girlfriend – “Yes, I know that was uncalled for. I’ll handle it, don’t worry.” So the unchecked behaviour escalates, as does the girlfriend’s anxiety levels (which kicks in the nagging reflex guaranteed to make a man do the exact opposite of what you want him to).

There are times I get so frustrated on my friend’s behalf that I have visions of pushing him off the fence he continually chooses to sit on. What The Ball-less Wonder doesn’t realize is that he could make his life so much simpler with relatively little effort. He doesn’t have to stop hanging out with his friends. He doesn’t need to have a ‘heart-to-heart’ with them. All he needs to do is consistently say: “Hey, that’s my girlfriend you’re talking about. You don’t have to like her, but you do have to respect that she’s important to me.” Even the dumbest of dogs eventually learns from consistent training.

Simple, yes. But it takes balls. Hey, maybe I should lend him mine.