On quiet guys with beards



Somehow the conversation at work today came around to me describing my weakness for dudes in bands.



"Not the badass Tommy Lee-types," I explained, "but the quiet guys with beards who are kind of, you know, dopey looking."



This set off a round of guffawing and giggling amongst those in the cubes nearest me. Sometimes it's fun being the baby in the office, because I totally get to remind everyone of their younger, more transgressive selves. The women laughed because they used to totally fall for the dopey bearded quiet guys too, and the men laughed because they used to be the dopey bearded quiet guys.


I then added that a guy didn't have to be in a band for me to fall in love with him; he could, after all, be an artist specializing in hideous installation pieces, or a socially awkward writer with torn jeans and ink-stained fingers. The possibilities are nearly endless, so long as he doesn't have the kind of job that might allow him to "climb" any sort of "ladder of success." The guys I find attractive just don't have careers. They have jobs, menial employment that allows them to pay the bills most months. They live in aging bungalows that would be cute if someone kicked out the five dudes and their musical equipment, picked the empty beer bottles out of the yard, and completely gutted the place. The guys I like are quiet where I am loud, reserved where I am in-your-face. Mostly, they don't talk much.



They don't talk much. I can't emphasize this enough. When your life is as full of words as mine is, there is something so wonderful about a man who doesn't say a lot. I know I really like someone when I feel comfortable enough being completely silent with him, not saying anything, my mind not racing in its habitual thought circles, but devoid of anything but the feel of the moment. What can I say? I'm a sucker for the dopey silent type. They get me every time.


************************************************************************************************************




New cell phone



The 19-year-old bimbo at the cell place, the one with the bad highlights and heavy eye makeup and pink acrylics, totally talked me into getting the 200 txt/video mssg + unlimited internet(!) + unlimited tv(!!!) plan for $19.99 a month when I went in there this evening to buy a new phone. It started out innocently enough, with me staring bug-eyed at the wall-o-phones while stating the awkwardly obvious ("I don't know which one I want. They just all look like...phones."). I soon regained enough of my senses to stay far, far away from anything over $100, and quickly decided on the next-to-cheapest model, which also happened to be sleek and stylishly black and incredibly lightweight.



Then I made my fatal flaw. I told Ms. Pink Acrylics that I needed to add a txting package to my calling plan, and that's when she got me. She took a deep breathe and looked straight into my big brown eyes with her big baby blues, smiled, and said, "We have a special right now..."



Assured that, if I decided I didn't want or need unlimited internet(!) and unlimited television(!!!) on my phone, I could cancel at any point after 30 days, I signed the paperwork. My phone isn't fully activated yet, but just as soon as I receive my confirmation txt I will be a woman with full 3G capabilities, totally ready to take on the world. Or at least watch it on my cell phone.

###