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In one of those late-at-night ponderings as you drift to sleep, I found myself contemplating my "type" - the pattern of romantic partner to which I am drawn. I believe this musing was triggered by National Coming Out Day. Since I am a person who is attracted to both physical sexes, the classic "tall dark and handsome" or "busty redhead" shorthand is not available to me. My attraction is physical, when I am attracted, and not simply in the mind; I thoroughly like genitals - like touching them, like looking at them. I cannot however say that I am an "ass" person or that I look for a specific waist-to-hip ratio, or that I want a person of a certain height range.
Looking at my past romantic partners (and my past romantic interests with whom I did not ultimately partner), it seems to me that my "type" is clever, a history nerd, sympathetic to the plight of single mothers, a fan of Twin Peaks season one, a bit vain, and was fond of playing an unusual sport in high school but only in an easygoing way and with some house rules.
Obviously, there are other things I hope for. But it seems to me that the above is what gets you in the door. Tick those boxes, and you are invited to the interview stage. The list intrigues me because Twin Peaks is not my favorite show and single mothers aren't my main political axe, nor do I find history an inherently more worthy subject than music or science or literature. Yet I look for the pattern in my sorting process, and there it is. The bit of vanity is particularly non-negotiable.
***
After years and years of saying he wanted to sell his house in Dallas and move to New York, but facing various delays (health trouble, financial illiquidity, extensive procrastination), last week Uncle Rex handed over the keys to his house and moved to New York, where he is currently staying in a residential hotel while he scouts the right neighborhood and acclimatizes to things like public transit and people who talk fast.
I am rooting for him big time. He has spent his whole life in Dallas, except maybe a month trying out Houston in his early 20s. New York is a hard city, yet the difficulty of the proposition makes me think "crazy enough to work" in a way a place like Austin or Philadelphia would not.
This also means he will likely be here for Thanksgiving and Christmas, which is exciting. We have not occupied the same zip code in a long little while.
I have explored the idea of getting emotional about the sale of Clinton House, which was my grandmother's house before it was Rex's and is the closest thing I have to a childhood home. The only other address that has any connection to my early years which is still nominally occupied by the same family is Oak Cliff Presbyterian Church, and there has been enough congregational and liturgical turnover that it might as well be a sold house.
I don't find that I do miss Clinton House. It was a good house. We had good times in it. But I can go there in my head whenever I want. I remember rooms much more clearly than I do faces, and they rarely express themselves in ways that surprise me. And I am surrounded by so many signs of the continuity of my family.
Looking at my past romantic partners (and my past romantic interests with whom I did not ultimately partner), it seems to me that my "type" is clever, a history nerd, sympathetic to the plight of single mothers, a fan of Twin Peaks season one, a bit vain, and was fond of playing an unusual sport in high school but only in an easygoing way and with some house rules.
Obviously, there are other things I hope for. But it seems to me that the above is what gets you in the door. Tick those boxes, and you are invited to the interview stage. The list intrigues me because Twin Peaks is not my favorite show and single mothers aren't my main political axe, nor do I find history an inherently more worthy subject than music or science or literature. Yet I look for the pattern in my sorting process, and there it is. The bit of vanity is particularly non-negotiable.
***
After years and years of saying he wanted to sell his house in Dallas and move to New York, but facing various delays (health trouble, financial illiquidity, extensive procrastination), last week Uncle Rex handed over the keys to his house and moved to New York, where he is currently staying in a residential hotel while he scouts the right neighborhood and acclimatizes to things like public transit and people who talk fast.
I am rooting for him big time. He has spent his whole life in Dallas, except maybe a month trying out Houston in his early 20s. New York is a hard city, yet the difficulty of the proposition makes me think "crazy enough to work" in a way a place like Austin or Philadelphia would not.
This also means he will likely be here for Thanksgiving and Christmas, which is exciting. We have not occupied the same zip code in a long little while.
I have explored the idea of getting emotional about the sale of Clinton House, which was my grandmother's house before it was Rex's and is the closest thing I have to a childhood home. The only other address that has any connection to my early years which is still nominally occupied by the same family is Oak Cliff Presbyterian Church, and there has been enough congregational and liturgical turnover that it might as well be a sold house.
I don't find that I do miss Clinton House. It was a good house. We had good times in it. But I can go there in my head whenever I want. I remember rooms much more clearly than I do faces, and they rarely express themselves in ways that surprise me. And I am surrounded by so many signs of the continuity of my family.
