Most people are familiar with the concept of selective listening: you only hear what you want to hear. I can’t help but think the same rule applies in evaluating men. I call it selective judging: we only see the traits that we want to see. My heart throb college professor was notably intelligent when I saw him in lecture, but how would I have felt about being approached by him in a bar of good looking college guys? I found myself in constant admiration for my hot shot boss, but would I have felt the same was if I saw him stumbling through a conversation with his ex-wife and their kids? When we see individuals in fields where they are they expert, it is hard to imagine their confidence wavering anywhere else. I don’t know whether it’s optimism or inanity, but we have a poor habit of making people out to be who we want them to be and not who they actually are.
I usually pat myself on the back for seeing beyond the exterior, consciously making an effort to avoid this one-dimensional evaluation of an acquaintance. I try, but am unfortunately not immune to it. I shamefully admit I fell victim to this goggle-eyed naiveté in the worst place of all: the gym.
For about six months, I had been going to a weekly spin class, and while I occasionally tried out other classes, nothing got my adrenaline rushing and my blood pumping like my sixty minutes of cycling. And it wasn’t just the exercise that got my pulse racing. The instructor who taught the class made the my routine absolutely indispensable. Perched at the head of the group, his biceps rippled through his spandex muscle shirts, and his sweat trickled down his washboard chest in pulsating zeal. For fear of echoing a bad romance novel, I’ll keep my description brief, much like the garment I visualized him in.
Over time and after a few well planted seeds, I finally worked up from a fleeting smile to asking a question or two about spinning to holding lenghty conversations after class. I learned that he had not only gone to UC Davis like myself, but held a degree in the same major and was also studying to take his GMAT. He taught the spin classes purely as a hobby, working as a business consultant by day and partier by night. This guy’s stock was rising faster than the heat he generated in class, and the series of chance coincidences was beginning to seem unavoidable. Thursday date night took on a whole new meaning. I could feel the tension between us becoming more and more palpable… I started getting the kiss on the cheek greeting, the “sweetie” pet name, and the weekly complement on my hair or my new toned figure.
One night, we had a group meet up for the opening of Apartment 24, a new club out on Broadway where the music was hot and the company hotter. His suave confidence from class carried through onto the dance floor, and his contagious charisma was apparent by his seemingly endless circle of friends. I was intimidated, but not completely naïve. I could tell my interest was not one sided, and the night ended with a sweet kiss that left me spinning.
Post cycle the next week, he invited me out to Le Colonial, a hip French Vietnamese place just off Union Square with killer food in the evening and an even deadlier bar scene at night. “I mean, I recommend going with a group since the place gets pretty packed”, he said through those twinkling eyes, “So you should come with me and my buddies, or bring your people, or whatever.” Oh baby, I get it… we’re playing it cool.
“I’ll send you a text Saturday if I can make it.” I replied in my coolest voice, “Thanks for the work out.” Five minutes later, I had already alerted all of my roommates of my breakthrough, scheduled a hair appointment for the next day, and ran through at least six outfits in my head. I know, real cool. But hell, I was excited. Finally, the wheels were turning outside of the class.
Two days later, I was even more stoked about what the night’s evening could hold. “Dude, you are totally getting ass tonight,” my testosterone embed roommate, Jen, tittered. “You’re so lucky, man! I wish I could hit that.” I basically live with a female version of Napoleon Dynamite, but prettier and hornier.
“I don’t know, Jen. Maybe he was just being friendly.”
“Dude, you’re an idiot. He’s all over your shit all the time. Dude, so hot.” Jen’s eloquence always had a way of encouraging me.
Hours later, dolled up like Malibu Barbies, my best wingmen and I rolled up to the bar. After a couple of texts and more than a couple tequilas, I finally spotted my favorite spinner enter the club. I naturally acted like I didn’t see him at first, assumed the most flattering stance I could and made sure it looked like I was having an especially good time. Then came the eye contact, the approach, the lingering hug, the hand on the arm, the kiss on the cheek, and the exchange of complements. “
“You look good,” I said, “What’s the occasion?”
“Well, it’s my birthday next week, so we decided to celebrate early, you know.”
“Oh, well then handsome, happy early birthday.” I already knew exactly what I planned on giving him as a gift.
“Thanks baby,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. “Why don’t you grab a drink on my tab. I have to go say hi to a few friends. Meet you on the dance floor in a few minutes.”
Jen and I took the offer for the complimentary beverages, and took the liberty of dancing on or own for a bit. Moments later, I saw my spin instructor looking a little frazzled on the other side of the bar. I sauntered over, ready to pounce.
“So, when are you going to join us for a dance?” I cooed, excited at the thought of seeing what those quads could really do.
And then the bomb dropped.
“Well, uh, I just got a text… my girlfriend’s in town for a surprise visit. I guess she’s coming over to join us in a few.”
I felt like the DJ had just brought the music to a screeching halt. Suddenly my tequila started talking for me, “WTF, you have a girlfriend? You never told me that.”
“Oh, I didn’t? I thought I mentioned it”.
Reaffirming that he most certainly had not, he then leaned in close, breath hot on my cheek and hand tight around ass, “Mmmm, well then, I must have conveniently left that out.”
Yeah, and I must have conveniently left out my better judgment. I was somehow not too upset about my loss; suddenly, everything I had found charming now just seemed sleazy. I started thinking how he always wore that chain with a cross; what once seemed religious now screamed thug. He could get away with wearing cut-off shirts, but was it really necessary every class? And was his charisma actually conceit? It all seemed so suddenly fake. Maybe all of that build up was because I saw him only in a situation where these traits were acceptable.
I’m not completely self righteous; I admit to searching his name the next day on facebook, and the evidence I found their made me shudder. I was hard pressed to find one picture of the guy with his shirt on, and the throngs of beach bunnies in every photo reminded me of spring break freshman of year of college.
As immoral as it sounds, it wasn’t really the fact that he had a girlfriend that gave me the creeps. It was the fact that I had painted this perfect portrait only to discover the masterpiece was not of an eligible bachelor, but a total douche. In lieu of my experience, I’ve vowed not to make things out for more than they really are. Although that personal trainer I met last week seemed pretty tasty….
