Few things in this world compel a man like the gospel of attraction. The timeframe of moments transforms him from being unaware to obsessed. It’s one of the few magics left in this world, right up there with music and sleep. And yet, because nature dictates a certain amount of constant dissatisfaction to spurn growth and survival, no one has clearly discerned—to me at least—a constant in these attractions. A boob guy, a butt guy, whatever. Isn’t every guy those guys? It hits you when it hits you, and then you’re someone new.
The concept of dating looks radically different through the scope of 30-year-old eyes than it did ten years ago. My first conceit is that age makes it tougher and easier, like a figure skater in the olympics. You know it well, but it’s not some playful dalliance anymore. You know too much. Experienced too much. You’ve been here before. One girl was the best cook you ever met, one girl the best companion, one girl the most intellectually engaging, and they were probably never the same girl. Your knowledge obliterates innocence, which is akin to optimism. And speaking practically, this knowledge is an enemy to your happiness, creating relational obstacles that your future girlfriend will have to hurdle to gain your approval. And before you know it, you’re jaded, living in an emotional panopticon where scrutiny kills optimism, just like fear kills love.
Just buy a fucking cat you overthinking loser.
But then you’ll see someone. Maybe she’s a waitress, quite possibly a “staffing executive” as women in their 20s seem to be. You might not find out because who has the courage to generate a meaningful relationship out of the thin magic of “I think you’re pretty”? But it doesn’t matter. It’s enough. The biological grace of attraction is enough to keep the wheels turning, to keep the sun rising, to make you think that someone will be the best something.
So keep those jeans tight girls. You might not know it, but you’re somebody’s sunrise.