#2 Rid Yourself of Lingering Nice Guys

Before anyone cries, “Foul! You hurt my feelings, [crazy psycho fem-bot!]” be advised that I’m not dismissing the entire male population as little more than pint-sized bears. I know that there are many decent men out there–in fact, these men should be thanking me. By exposing the behavioral patterns of wombat boys everywhere, I make the genuinely considerate men’s twinkling little stars shine a bit brighter.

There are wonderful, considerate, supremely hunky men out there. This blog, in a way, is devoted to them, to sorting out the wheat from the chaff. I’m looking for one of these guys, and my encounters with the boys depicted in this blog are just part of the process of elimination. The problem is that usually when I find one of these wonderful guys, I also find that they’ve already manned up and devoted themselves to a committed loving relationship. And so I don’t date these men.

My best friend Anne and I were discussing this problem of mine recently, my chronic inability to date someone nice.

Anne, my lawyer best friend with great hair

Anne is currently dating a wonderful boy who likes to tease her about being carded for soda and who is too shy to tell her that he loves her–except when he’s drunk.

Anne's nice boyfriend

Anne has yet to meet his best friend, but she does know that he’s single, and when he’s been properly vetted she’ll introduce him to me.

“He has to be cool,” I told her. “Tim wouldn’t be friends with a tool.”

Boys often don’t recognize toolishness in their own friends, she reminded me.

“So true,” I sighed. “But I don’t have any tools for friends. What sort of friend sixth sense are boys missing?”

We’re girls, Anne continued, postulating wisely. We don’t befriend tools. We date them.

She is a lawyer. Her logic is unquestionable.

I did date a guy once who wasn’t a tool or a wombat. He was my first boyfriend, fresh out of high school. Some people might say my standards have slipped since then.

The Ex with the Nice Tattoos

He was sweet and considerate and did all those lovely things like stare into my eyes just because they’re beautiful and held my hand with interlocking fingers. He asked me out by writing me a song.

I know.

But two years, 400 miles between us, and it ended. I’d like to say that he turned into a wombat on me or that I was a bitchy prima donna who had not yet learned how to take care of someone who turned out to be one of the rare nice boys she would meet. But unfortunately, sometimes the truth is just that two perfectly human people can’t work it out.

Anne’s first boyfriend was always a jerk, but that’s okay because now she’s with someone who genuinely cares about her. And it’s not who you start out with that matters. It’s who you end with.


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