// To All of My Guy Friends Desperately Trying to Figure it Out//

I’ve seen many of my close guy friends and even many guy acquaintances on Tumblr posting pictures of girls. Girls covered in tattoos. Naked girls. Girls with oversized grandpa sweaters and non-prescription wayfarers. Girls in a t-shirt and underwear. Okay, so you appreciate a good-lookin’ gal. I can’t argue too much with that logic. But I think it may have gone a little far for a couple of reasons. And this is not necessarily because I have opinions on what your tumblr bloggage should consist of. But I’ve heard/read/seen far too many of us go down a path of pigeonholing ourselves to outward appearances solely as attributes for significant others. Not that there’s too much wrong with finding certain external features or characteristics to be attractive. But we’re being just as empty, shallow, and narrow-minded as the shallowest of those. And I know we think we’re not doing this and if we do realize that we are, we have a great way of justifying. I’ve heard it. I’ve said. “Dude, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with having a ‘type…’” or “That’s just what I’m into, man…” or “Dude…I think I like guys…heh heh…just kidding….but dude…” I suppose we all have particular attributes that we are attracted to over others and I think that’s probably okay. I think the potential for problematic relationships comes when that becomes our sold basis and foundation for a relationship. And it doesn’t have to just be wrapped up in bodies and fashion. I remember a while ago I really wanted me one of them Christian-hippie girls. Then I wanted me a girl who was really into the same music and film and literature as I was. Before all of that, I wanted a ‘scene’ girl. You know the type, sharp angles in their hair cut, cropped hair in the back, skinny jeans, a Converge t-shirt. I used to really be into girls who smoked. I pieced together elaborate ideas of who I wanted my love to be. I made conditions for my love. I wrote out a contract in my head for who that person should be.

Every time that I put effort into someone being my type I ended up spending time and energy wrapped up in the idea of someone I could never love. I put so much thought into constructing the ideal person for me. I put so much effort into thinking about what I wanted from my deal girl and all of it was shit. All of it lie on the outward, barren wastelands of our finite carnality. The pornographic image I constructed for myself wasn’t a real person and maybe I could find someone who would come close to that image, but maybe not. And Maybe I would find that image and then maybe that imaged would be ruined as soon as it opened its mouth. 

We all have done it, many of us still do it. But I’ll tell you this, every ideal image I ever had fell apart, crumbled, and was eventually buried. Those images lie in the ground now, rotting just as surely as the tattooed skin you so desire or the ironically vintage cardigan you envision your dream match wearing will rot. Essentially, almost any time I had a picture of what I wanted, I got pretty close to having it. And I hated every one. I was trampled, devalued and enlightened as to the feebleness of my thinking. And the moment I buried my last dream girl is the moment I was opened up to actually experience what it means to love a person and not an image. 

Psychiatric medicine refers to love as unconditional positive regard. Without conditions or terms. I shudder at the reality that this is probably how we pick our friends, too. Based on the cloaks they wear on the outside rather than the person they are.

What happens when you’re 45 years old and suddenly that cool, ironic sense of style your gal had is replaced with mom jeans and sketchers? What happens when your interests change 10 years from now? All those outside, surface items you put your hopes in will be dashed on the rocks and your ‘love’ will be gasping for air, bleeding, torn to bits, and dying. 

I buried my images and my dream girls. And now the greatest, most beautiful person I’ve ever known has filled in my grays with color, shed light into my dark universe and caused a bloom of brilliance in my life. She is “my type of girl-soul,” as Kerouac said; something has been forged that I’m not sure I could have dreamt up even if I tried.

I urge you. Bury your dream girl. And then find the girl who surpasses every imagined ideal you ever had. And when you find her, love her.