Now Accepting Boyfriend Applications

It’s been a reasonable humiliating amount of time since I’ve had a long-term, serious relationship, and I finally feel emotionally ready to henpeck someone into oblivion again. I’ve taken my time, gone on many dates, resisted settling, broken a few hearts (but never had mine broken—insert robotic laugh here) and I feel I have a good handle on exactly what I want in my life. Here, a brief primer for the men who feel they are ready to run the gauntlet that is my absurd life, aiming for that tantalizing prize of mediocre, tedious, emotionally frustrating sex with a redhead.

You Must Be

  • Very tall. I am a solid 5’6 while barefoot, putting me about 5’9 in heels. I refuse to be taller than you in my favorite shoes, as that is socially humiliating and I am incredibly shallow. There are plenty of handsome shorter guys, and there are also plenty of lovely, stumpy girls with a fondness for kitten heels. Find each other, marry each other, have your children, paint them all blue and live in a mushroom.
  • Incredibly smart. I have a tendency to date engineers, mathematicians, pre-med students, and physicists. And while it doesn’t go unnoticed that their general nerdiness makes them loyal, patient, attentive boyfriends—there is also something outrageously attractive to me about a man who is brilliant in the areas in which I am legally retarded. I consider myself fairly handy in all of the areas that make no money, like literature, philosophy, art, debate, and history—and I either hold immense disdain or pity for most of the men I’ve dated who share these areas of expertise. I find their ideas flimsy, their argumentative style predictable, and their vocabulary paltry. And as two people dick-measuring over who’s more well-read in 17th century French literature (me) is about as productive or relevant as two junkies arguing over a spoon, I’d rather you be the attractive version of Carl Sagan.
  • Funny. This should just go without saying, and yet I find myself constantly in the presence of unfunny, tedious men. How men who lack the charm and finesse necessary to make a woman laugh have not yet been weeded out of the gene pool is beyond me, but I will certainly not be reproducing with one of them. My eggs are hilarious, your sperm must be the same.
  • Pretentious. I like a man who is self-assured to the point of obnoxiousness, and looks down his elegant roman nose at the perceived flaws of others. Now, he shouldn’t be like this about everything, nor should he derive a sense of superiority from looking at photos of starving African children, but in his specific area of expertise, he should be confident that he is the best.
  • Open to wearing argyle. Some people are into S&M, some into roleplaying, and some (as I recently found out with my foray back into the murky waters of OKCupid) into peeing themselves. I am into argyle. Now, that’s not to say that any overweight, sweaty security guard who puts on a Cosby sweater is going to be met with a coupon book of sexual favors, but I am a firm believer that there is no man that isn’t at least slightly improved by an argyle cardigan. If worn with a white oxford shirt, tie, and sensible glasses, said coupon book may be in order. However, I have a tendency to wear a lot of argyle myself, so we must coordinate our outfits over the phone each night, as I would rather fall on a sword than walk around town in matching argyle sweaters with my boyfriend.
  • Desirous of children. Now, I’m not one of those crazy women who is looking for a sperm bank with legs and will use as many turkey basters as it takes to get that baby. And they exist, I have met them. If my goal was simply to pump out kids like a slot machine that’s just hit the jackpot, I could have dozens by now. I don’t. I like being 22, having no responsibilities, making terrible decisions, and getting drunk at 1 in the afternoon when I feel like it. But I love children. And I will have them someday. And a man who is only ambivalent towards the idea of putting genetic copies of himself into this world does not make the grade. Children are either something you want or you don’t. We have plenty already, we don’t need to be throwing more on the pile just for shits and giggles. If you want children, it’s because you feel you will be the most qualified to raise them (see: pretentious) and you want to add one or two tallies to the “intelligent, rational” column of the future to counteract the ever-expanding “stupid, fat” one.
  • Willing to be henpecked. I am never satisfied about anything. I have an almost never-ending list of personal flaws and past mistakes, yet I sit atop a golden throne of judgment, from which I will point my jewel-encrusted scepter at you and tell you to iron your shirt. I will pick fights with you constantly because I mistake disagreements and fundamental differences for passion, and I consider a night in which we throw dinner plates at each other to be time well spent. I will find your most insecure points and needle at them until they are raw, bleeding stumps and you are weighing out the pros and cons of throwing me in a wood chipper. I will be infuriating, I will be insufferable, I will be incredibly frustrating—but I won’t be boring.
  • A thrilling conversationalist. This sort of comes with the territory of intelligent and funny, but as you can see, I am not short on words. I like to talk until people’s ears bleed, and fall immediately in love with any and everyone who can do the same while holding my attention. I want to have conversations with you that last until 9 the next morning when we pass out in a lump on my roof surrounded by cigarette butts and empty bottles of wine. I want to talk about everything with you until our jaws hurt. I want us to sometimes forget to have sex because our conversation is so unbelievably good. Sometimes. Occasionally.
  • Thin. I don’t like fat guys. I can’t take them. They upset me. Even a little heft is enough to put me off my dinner. And muscles are not my thing either. In all seriousness, I like my men to look like Victorian intellectuals. I like them to look too smart, too blue-blooded, and too riddled with hemophilia to have amassed any physical strength. They should be somewhat pale, have piano player’s fingers, and I want to feel like I could take them in a fair fight. Having a little definition is tolerable, but it should come more as a result of alarming lack of body fat than time spent at the gym.
  • Atheist. Religious people are often the rough combination of stupid and militant, don’t be one of them.

Well, there you have it. A brief list of the humble requirements for the future love of my life. It’s not much, trust me. I’m easygoing and open to change (no I’m not).

And even if I weren’t, I am worth it. I am incredibly interesting, always right, unbelievably beautiful, and exceptionally hilarious. These few requests are mere motes of dust in comparison to the god-like pleasure of spending your time with me.

I accept applications in Microsoft Word. Word Perfect, Works, Works Processor, and all of that nonsense is for homeless people. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Chelsea Fagan founded the blog The Financial Diet. She is on Twitter.

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