The other day, I was chatting with a friend about being attracted to a specific “type” of man.
Seeing as how he was front row center when I flirted with his friend at Burning Man, my friend said that I CLEARLY have a type.
And it’s true.
I am not one to be attracted to men in suits, although I like a man who can get dressed up.
I like a man in jeans and a tight t-shirt who sports a beard.
I like them scruffy and down-to-earth.
Think Mike Rowe on Dirty Jobs and you’ve got an idea of what appeals to me.
Now, I’m not saying that I never go against type.
I’ve had two boyfriends who didn’t fit the mold.
I’m just saying they had a uphill battle and I will always, ALWAYS find myself attracted to the biggest, baddest, scruffiest man in the room.
Some women are attracted to fancy cars, wealth and expensive suits.
I’m attracted to trucks, 5 o’clock shadows and callused hands.
I’m not sure where this comes from.
My DNA is still in “caveman mode” and is attracted to men who can handle a gun, park a fifth wheel, and barbecue like they were born in a Weber grill.
Clearly my inner woman is preparing for the zombie apocalypse and wants a big, strong man to look after me.
Because who cares what kind of a car you drive or how much money you have in the bank when there are zombies trying to eat your brain?