Beggars Can't Be Choosers

I’m pickier about men than when I was younger. I thought it was supposed to be the other way around. As in, you get older and more mature and overlook minor flaws because you realize that no one’s perfect.

The thing is, perfection doesn’t appeal to me; everyone knows I despise pretty boys. It’s not like I have a certain cookie cutter image of what I find attractive, but these days, it’s few and far between.

Prime example:

Last week, I covered a St. Louis-bred rapper’s album-listening event at a studio in TriBeCa. Since my roommate, Denise, hails from the Lou as well and is a fan, I invited her along as my plus one. I was just going to roll in and out, but as long as the open bar was poppin’, I figured I’d down a few and hang out. Hey, I feel obligated to supplement my ridiculous rent with a decent share of free liquor. Plus, the more one drinks, the quicker they forget about the guilt of that obscene rent – even if just for a little while.

So when he arrived, fashionable but not obnoxiously late, we all said hello and shook hands before he made his way to the DJ booth to play us his upcoming album. As my model-lengthed roommate and I stood near him, I saw how short said rapper really is. Damn those video angles because he looks at least six feet tall on TV. Regardless, he was handsome. I’ve always had a little crush on him, ever since he came out with his first mainstream single in 2000.

And he had beefed up quite a bit. I knew this, not just because I could see his six pack through his shirt (now that’s some feat) but also because he’d recently been announced as one of the main models for the Sean Jean clothing line – whose ads ironically don’t include that many clothes.

Anyway, Denise and I were bouncing to the tracks he was playing, mingling with the other industry folk with tequila in hand when an acquaintance of mine that I often run into at these events approached us. I introduced Denise and we all engaged in some pretty mundane small talk. When he walked away…

“Hey, you looked so bored talking to him!” Denise was appalled since I’m usually quite the talker.

“He’s kind of boring.” I shrugged.

“He’s cute. He was into you. What – he’s not your type?”

“Noooo. I don’t have a type anymore! I love all men.” That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. “That dude just provides no type of conversational spark for me. And intellect makes a guy attractive to me.”

What a crock, some of you might be thinking. I’m still trying to convince myself that this intellect-sex appeal symbiosis myself.

“Okay, fine,” Denise pressed. “Just physically, then. At this party, who would you date based off of looks.”

I scanned the crowd, failing at my attempts to be subtle as my mouth transformed into a snarl. Slim pickins, for sure. And then I smiled and nodded toward the DJ booth.

“Rajul. Shame on you. A bunch of cute, eligible and educated men in here and you pick the rapper.”

“This is an imaginary game! And besides. I think he’s the cutest. That was what you asked.”

This is when I realized I’m picky. And when you’re not exactly Halle Berry – and trust me, people, I’m not even in the same stratosphere - it’s NOT cool to be that picky. So I’ve come to the conclusion that I either have to get billions of dollars worth of plastic surgery quickly, or simply remain single until some miracle happens and a man that I think is beautiful finds me beautiful too.

Since I’ve got $138 in my checking account right now, I’m going to go with the latter.