Ahh the bad boy:…
That fusion of gorgeousness, excitement and unwavering ability to disappear from our lives as quickly as he arrived. I challenge anyone who says they’ve never been burnt by this type of man.
OK, so I may be generalizing here but it’s hard to deny women’s fascination with the type of guy that doesn’t ring when he says he will, forgets our birthday and is intensely disliked by friends and family for “not being good enough” for us.
For some reason, the bad boy, (I like to call Neanderthal man), commands instant attention; while the possible love of our life gets overlooked sipping his latte whilst shaking his head and watching us argue over trivialities in an overcrowded coffee shop.
This latte lover, who I’ll call Mr. Caring Communicative Man, is an alien creature who accepts us, for who we are, wobbly bits n’ all. In a world of Tinder and booty calls, these genuinely nice guys are being washed out to sea with the tsunami of Neanderthal men that seem to be flooding the dating scene and programming us women to, dare I say it, settle.
We are so used to being ignored or misunderstood by the opposite sex that when Mr. CCM sits us down and says,” we really need to talk”, we instantly distrust his motives, or alternatively scour the house for hidden cameras in case Ashton Kutcher has relaunched his prank show, Punk’d.
Our inability to trust means that when flowers are sent to work, or they profess their undying love to us, we sadly suspect something’s amiss. Did they forget their way home the night before and fall into a strip club?
If they ring when they said they would, we silently question whether they have any hobbies or friends-I mean why would someone just be thoughtful and true to his word? It’s all a bit derailing really. Strangely, we feel more at ease dealing with constant phone checking (making sure it’s not on silent or has lost battery) and social media stalking of our Neanderthal than we do when the CCM plans an impromptu meal with our fave Sav Blanc.
We feel rather normal eating kilos of Ben and Jerrys while weeping down the phone to our besties. That’s what we do. That’s what modern dating means doesn’t it? I mean Bridget Jones wasn’t created out of thin air.
The bottom line is we seem to revel in real pain and strangely thrive on it. And I’m not just talking about the slight annoyance the CCM might muster up in us and doesn’t do the promised backlog of dishes, no, I’m talking the inscrutable, heart wrenching, can’t live another minute pain. The gut-wrenching agony we feel when our Neanderthal man still has his Facebook status set to single, where we thought we’d at least progressed to “it’s complicated”. It’s been a year after all.
Is it because it keeps us connected to our feelings? Is it because it keeps us connected to our friends in man-bashing solidarity? It’s a ridiculous paradox.
