Dinner or masturbation?
At the time I'd been dabbling in the young professional dating scene, even trying a couple traditional dates. In fact, I had one set up for the following night, with an associate from some satellite office of a firm just outside the city. She was attractive and I wanted to see what was under her business suit. The problem was the "dinner ritual." A dreadful exercise - so formal and detached, with that ocean of tablecloth between you and all that protocol... It feels like you're on a job interview, volleying vacant filler dialogue back and forth.
"What's your practice like?"
"You know - standard litigation."
"I'm thinking of switching firms. Maybe shifting to the finance side."
"Really?"
"The partner track at my firm is too long, and it seems even longer for women. And I don't see them investing in the regulatory law area."
"Regulatory law seems nice. There's always a need for it."
"Are there other areas you're interested in besides litigation?"
"I don't know."
"You have to pick some specialty. It's all about being a specialist these days."
"Yeah, well, we'll see. You want another pinot grigo?"
"I think I'm just going to do a decaf cappuccino. I have yoga in the morning. Hot yoga. Have you ever tried hot yoga?"
"Uh... I don't think s--"
"You want to split some tempura-fried ice cream? The green tea flavor is soooo tasty."
"Sure... sure. Sounds delicious."
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1 In fairness, it is. I like green tea, and green tea ice cream. I just don't like hearing it ordered.
A Flaw in the Uniform
It wasn't until the end, when we stood up to leave, shook hands and offered each other the obligatory "I'll be in touch" and "I hope we can get this thing done" comments people give each other at the conclusion of every meeting that I realized what had creeped me out about Marcus from the moment I first saw him. It was mean and unfair, I knew that. The problem was native and permanent; not much he could do to fix it. Well, at least the part of it he hadn't created (the gaudy ornamentation that only served to draw attention to the malady). Still, as I stood there staring at it, I couldn't help thinking, Shit, those chicks were on to something...
If you're the sort of person who'd describe himself as a "successful professional man" in a large city between twenty-five and forty and you're unattached, there's a good chance you went to work today in a uniform. You probably didn't realize it, but you did. You wore a $120-200 dress shirt, $70-150 tie, $300-500 shoes, $50-250 belt and $700-1,500 suit. If you're corporate casual, you put on a pair of grey or khaki flat front $150-300 pants, polished $300 loafers, $100 matching belt and the same shirt you'd have otherwise worn with a suit. You brushed your teeth with $7 whitening paste, shaved your face with a $200 electric razor, clipped your nose hair with stainless steel scissors from a $50 toiletry kit, slapped $15 moisturizer on your face and ran just enough $20 styling cream through your $80 haircut to keep it under control without advertising your use of "product." On the way out the door, you slipped a $2,000 to $7,000 Omega Seamaster or Rolex GMT Master on your wrist.
In case you're wondering, somewhere between two and five million other males went through exactly the same ritual at exactly the same time, putting on exactly the same outfit.
As you pass the mirror in the entry hall of your apartment you suck in your gut, stick out your chest and pull your pants down slightly, to accentuate the length of your torso. You check the blousing of your shirt to make sure it isn't puffy around the middle and run a hand through your hair one last time. Then you stop, trying to remember... Did you clip those straggling beard hairs near your Adam's apple - the ones the razor always misses? You press your face inches from the mirror and turn your head to look, at the same time admiring how the shirt defines the curve of your shoulder (the overhead presses at the gym are working beautifully). Your neck's clear and smooth. Everything's perfect and in place. Smile, you're a chick magnet.
What you didn't check in the mirror - the detail you'd never even think to examine - is the same one that dogged your junior high basketball career and rendered those fourth grade piano lessons a waste of money. Ask any woman to list the characteristics of a man that immediately register in her head - what she notices in an instant sitting across from him, meeting him in a group of people or casually talking to him on the train. Most men would expect her to start with eyes then move on to the shoulders, the smile, the lack of an obvious beer gut - the things they'd assume women view as the next important items. They'd expect women to cite all of the stereotypically attractive male attributes - whether the man exhibited power and vigor, had money or charisma or Pierce Brosnan's hair. Those things all come into play, but from the women I've asked, the thing they notice the second they see you, and seem to remember a lot more than the stitching of your suit, your wallet or your granite jaw line is your hands.
Yes, that clump of fingers at the end of your arm.
The exchange I've had with women on the subject is always the same:
"They're important because of the dick size correlation thing, right?"
"No. A man's hands just sort of... say everything."
"'Everything'?"
"Yes. You imagine those hands on you and if they're bad you think, 'No. No way. I don't want those things anywhere near me.'"
"So you'd blow a guy off just because he had bad hands?"
"There's a chicken and egg issue there. They usually confirm a decision you've already made. Bad hands tend to run with other problems."
"What's 'bad?' Little hands?'"
"No. It's not as simple as that. I can't really explain it. You know it when you see it."
No woman's ever shown me a definitive example of bad hands. That's not surprising, of course. Unless you and a female friend happened to be talking about the subject when someone with a set of them walks up to you, there's no way you'd ever remember to look for it or point it out. It's a latent consideration, the sort that gathers cobwebs in your head, behind lists of old baseball stats, the names of people from your freshman hall and the slide show of girls you fingered in 8th grade. It's one of those unconscious signals, registered in the semi-important file of Things to Be Casually Wary Of, along with non-Alcoholics who still won't drink, straight men who ask you where you bought your clothes or dates who check out the color of your Amex.
As I slid my hand out of Marcus' I glanced down and spied his. It was thick and stubby - muscular, but fattened, a collection of cocktail sausages held together with knuckle joints, painted in coarse black hair.
And it was manicured.
Posted by PhilaLawyer at 9:36 AM