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.

Yup.

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?