On my type of women

A few weeks back, I decided to make a sojourn into the netherworld that is Charlies. Our local country western/hip hop gay bar. I went with friends. The type of friends that a girl couldn't live without...The ones that ask you the hard questions. For example: "Why that girl? Why not that one over there?" "But the one you like is so...old." or "butch" or "strange" or "what have you".

Ok. So maybe I have a type. And maybe that type is shocking to people. And maybe that is ok.

Now this friend hasn't hung out with me in a number of years. She was my date to prom in high school and we have since gone our separate ways. Since we have reconvened in each others' lives she was shocked to see me shamelessly flirting with the professional boxer, with the long hair, the cowboy hat, the crowsfeet, whom is obviously a bit older than me. (9 years to be exact). Now in hindsight, she's not really my type. But she did seem to fit the following bill....

What can I say. I know what I want. And what I like.

I like my women rough around the edges. Seeing them covered in bruises from rugby matches, boxing practice, or a hard fall on a mountain bike stirs something in me. It shows me they have guts, they play hard and that they live on the edge. Knowing that a woman has been in a bar fight (not one that she started mind you), makes me feel like she can protect me. And that I will be safe with her...no matter what. Military women (well, one in particular at this point in time) are the bane of my ability to keep my 'shit together' without melting into one giant puddle.

Knowing about cars, car parts, engines, tools, motorcycles, bicycles, etc is key. Even just a thing or two. Without some knowledge of this, you are less than interesting to me.

Loves to be outdoors. But also knows when to call it quits, throw on a pot of tea/crack open a bottle or wine, and cuddle by the fire.

I want someone to take care of, but that someone should also be independent enough to live without me when I need to do my own exploring.

I like callouses on hands. Sore muscle aches to soothe. Wounds that need bandaging.

Rough hands and creases around the eyes are musts. There is nothing sexier than knowing that these things show proof a life well lived, and these details tell stories.

I may be a softer sort, built for the likes of Academia, but at the same time...I'm not so gentle either. I too play rugby, and enjoy working in the dirt. I just imagine myself doing that work alongside being a mother, with a wife that does harder labor than me and needs me to tend to her bruises, etc.

And I like them awkward, but proud. Quietly self-confident. Casting shy and shifty glances, kicking the ground as they walk. A sort of shuffle.

Peter Pan complexes are key. They should never want to grow old and should just be hell bent on staying young physically and mentally. Meaning they can run through the chicago airport in the neon hallway with me, stone cold sober, and find it to be the highlight of their day. Or maybe go to the park and jump in a piles of leaves, a chance to relive a blissful fall morning of our youth.

And that my friends, is my type.