Not with my wobbly, constantly aching 30-year-old knees. Nor with the kind of pounding my lower back has gone through playing basketball for 21 years. To me, it has become a physical impossibility, chasing certified vamps, that is.
Not that these creamy babes aren’t worth the trouble. I mean, who wouldn’t drool over the Vanessa del Biancos, the Angela Velezes, the Ara Minas, the Ina Raymundos of the world? Who wouldn’t risk getting broken and bruised just to save these goddesses from the lustful eyes, groping hands, and exploitative motives of dirty old bastards and smooth-talking philanderers?
In fact, I have friends who would gladly spend a night at the National Orthopedic Hospital in a snap, believing that being beaten up in defense of these blue-chip beauties is the ultimate expression of their devotion. And I don’t blame them. An excellent anesthesiologist, and the comforting arms of Ms. Perfect seem sufficient to kill the pain. Of course, the latter is better. As a self-proclaimed playboy, boldly declared, “There’s something real death-defying about exquisite beauty. And when you encounter it, it’s like having a brush with a higher life form. For one fleeting moment, you feel immortal.”
Unfortunately, nobody told this dude that to be Duncan Macleod, the immortal Highlander himself, was going to cost him. The reality is, going out with every guy’s fantasy date—however ego-boosting—not only demands an average-to-excellent grasp of hand-to-hand combat. A beefed-up wallet is crucial as well, especially if pampered, high-maintenance women are involved.
Sure, most of these ladies claim they’re really not out to suck their men’s bank accounts dry and that they, too, need to feel loved, but a daily rendezvous at KFC isn’t just how they define fun. I wouldn’t call that fun too, by the way. But I wouldn’t describe the hangover-inducing, dance-till-you-drop-and-let’s-do-it-all-over-again-tomorrow parties these swinging night owls are accustomed to fun either.
Let me clarify that this isn’t a misinformed and misguided attempt at vamp-bashing from a guy who’s totally inept at scoring with her royal hotness. Actually, I’d rather attempt doing just that than identify who between the Jennifer Lopez-sexy baby and the Meg Ryan-simple cutie is more worthy of a man’s commitment. It’s just a tough puzzle to crack.
All I know is, men have always been eternally conflicted on this issue. And adding two hurting knees to the list of reasons why this is so will, perhaps, make the debate only harder to pin down.
Like I said, some favor the voluptuous ones because they bring out the macho in them. Others, meanwhile, see this set as too high-profile that they wouldn’t dare wake up with one—ever. But what of these so-called simple, loveable, and generally called marriage-worthy women? There are bad apples in this gang as well, those who reward husbands with a thorough tour of hell instead of the comforting taste of heaven.
Confusing? You bet it is. But one thing has become clear to me while writing this. While it’s terrific to muse about forever with that dream guy/gal, realizing that simplicity and sexiness aren’t solely limited to what the eyes see somehow makes things less complex. After all, sexiness isn’t always about curves, cleavage, smoldering presence, Madonna, perfection, just as simplicity isn’t always about long skirts, conservatism, being demure, Martha Stewart, flaws. Believe me, there are women out there who hardly care about this dichotomy, ladies who remarkably manage to be both sexy and simple without even breaking a sweat.
I’m blessed to have met someone exactly like that recently. And though I hard she hates my favorite Los Angeles Lakers to death, she’s still the main reason I’m serious about getting these damned knees of mine repaired.
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