A few weeks ago in a rare moment of nostalgia, I trawled through photos on Facebook of people I knew in high school, trying to figure out if any of them had turned out hot. Once I had dug through the endless photos of babies in utes (I grew up in the country), I discovered to my delight that every guy who bullied me in high school is now a fat bogan who engages in homoerotic binge drinking on a Saturday night.
I don’t see people I went to high school with very often, but last weekend I attended the very Christian wedding of a friend I’ve kept in touch with. My boyfriend graciously came along, serving as company and awkward conversation starter for various people I didn’t remember enough about to sustain a conversation with. After my Facebook adventure I hadn’t expected much in the way of a pubescent spank bank retrospective.
It turned out I was wrong. Walking away from one interaction, I went to whisper to my boyfriend that some of these guys had turned out rather fetching.
He stopped me, shook his head and said, “I know what you’re going to say, and it’s ridiculous — you have such a predictable type.”
I was outraged, and retorted, “I’m attracted to people, not types! I’m a free spirit!”
But I knew deep down that he was right. The guy we’d just been talking to was my type. Things might have changed since my days of eroticising my high school bullying experiences, but perhaps that just means my tastes have narrowed.
Sometimes it takes these moments linking the past to the present to help you understand why you’ve come to think the way you do. While that’s important, I worry even something as nebulous as “my type” could be continually defined by factors outside my control.
Of course, the wedding didn’t end in an evening of passion with my boyfriend and the predictable guy, and that’s probably for the best. Next time I’ll try to think a little more outside the box.
INFO: You read more by Benjamin Riley at SouthpawSlug.