There is one kind of man to which I have never been attracted (and by one, that isn’t really hyberbole, because, of course, I likes the menfolk). It’s the bully. The red-faced, ex-frat boy looking for a fight or telling me to shut up and get in the car just never had an allure. If I wanted to be told how to live my life, I would never have moved out of my mother’s house. (That’s actually an unfair statement to my mother. After all, rather than telling me how to live my life, she was much more likely to say “It’s not my life, you do what you want.” The tone really telegraphed the sincerity of that statement, too.)

Actually, the more I think about it, it’s damn lucky for me that I don’t cream for the abusive, dominant, alpha-dog types. With my stubborn streak, it’s unlikely I would shut up or otherwise acquiesce. Backing down is not something I’m great at, if you are telling me what to do. (And that trait is clearly a direct, unwavering line from mother to daughter. All of Pat’s crowning moments I think resulted from someone making the tactical error of telling her what to do.) So, if I perchance ended up with someone of the alpha-dog frat, certainly a Lifetime movie would be made to tell how that story worked out with a bad end, headlines and news at 11.

Did I mention that I am, instead, hung up on a kind and cool man? Yeah, not only is his ass simply phenomenal, but the most he is ever impatient with me is to stop me from self-deprecation. Yup, he makes me stop the abuse. Much better dynamic, I think.