The Laws of Attraction


I have a problem attracting men. Shocking, I know, but it’s true. I get dressed up in something with moderate-but-not-overly-slutty-leg-and-boob-revealing action, strap a pair of heels on, slightly curl my hair, apply just the right amount of makeup and spend the entire night not talking to any boys. I know that the problem can’t be that I’m not attractive (insert shampoo-commercial hair flick here) – not that I have any tickets on myself, but I am not even getting approached by uggos. Ain’t even no uni-browed, snaggle-toothed, hobble-footed sweater wearers getting all up on this. Nada. Zip. I’m getting nothing.

There are several theories I have developed that may explain my not showing up on anyone’s wang radar, explored in detail below.

This is something I’ve suspected for a while. The idea that tall women are glamorous, gazelle-like creatures from an Amazonian planet is a total crock. Dudes like little chicks. I’m way too stubborn to wear flats when I go out (let’s face it, a pair of heels is about the best accessory a girl’s rear view can find), so I quite often tower above most guys at around 6’3”. While I’m sure there are some dudes out there who’d be down with climbing me like a tree, I think the general consensus is that small = hot, tall = not. And while respectively my size 12-14 frame may be the same as a 5’6” girl rocking a size 8-10, I’m pretty sure when men are looking at an ass they’re not really thinking about the bigger – notwithstanding completely proportionate – picture.

A male friend was kind enough to critique my ‘come hither’ look for me the other night. In his words: “Terrifying.” My face tends to freeze into really awkward expressions during moments of extreme self-consciousness. This explains my wide-eyed, serial-killer stare in the majority of photos ever taken of me. Evidently, the same thing happens when I try to attract the attention of men in bars. Despite my friend’s efforts at constructive criticism and my attempts to workshop his suggestions – “try smiling,” “don’t stare so hard,” “maybe look away a few times, it’s really intense” – the result was always the same. I’ve got the crazy eyes. I’m like a python hypnotising a rabbit, bitch. Deal with it.

I’m the kind of girl who stays stone cold sober until she’s five drinks in, then spends the rest of the night dancing on the table and puking on the floor. I find it hard to hit that happy medium of drunkenness where I’m relaxed, comfortable and smile readily without getting distracted by shiny objects and trying to convince bouncers to let me wear their jackets and do their jobs.  (Yes, that’s happened more than once.) I feel that this presents something of a lack of opportunity for would-be suitors to approach. It’s a small window, and after two more drinks I’ll be attempting to climb out of it to get onto the roof.

I recently spent a good three hours exchanging flirtatious banter with a cheeky bartender, only to have him drop the ‘gay’ bomb just moments before I planned on slipping him my number. I must be one heck of a delightful fag hag or a sucker for excellent customer service, ‘cos I could have sworn that it was on like Donkey Kong. (Monkey style. With barrels. I don’t even know what that means.) This is not the first time I’ve glanced around a bar only to identify the bartender as the only attractive prospect. And despite the fact that every other woman in the bar is probably thinking the same thing, there is enough vanity in my drunken mind to believe that I’ll be the one girl whose quick wit and cheeky smile (crazy eyes aside) will burn an indelible impression on his heart. Or his crotch. I’ll take either.

I frequently head out with just one of my single friends. The two of us are incorrigible (in the very best way) and we always have an excellent time, but we never get approached by men when it’s just the two of us out together. Maybe it’s because men prefer to hunt women that travel in packs, wait for one to slip a little too close to the edge of the herd and then slink in for the kill. The presence of just two women presents a definite doubles situation in which an interested party would need to employ some serious wing-manning, an art that seems to have fallen by the wayside of late.

All of these theories are plausible; in fact, it’s possible that all five theories are working against me in some kind of major universal vag-blocking scenario. Whatever the reason, all I know is there’s never a lot of sausage on offer at the snack-wagon whenever I head out. Le sigh.


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