If this is bad-ass Bill in a leather jacket competing against thoughtful Tom in khakis in a cardigan, then we all know it's no contest: We will love Bill and give him all the sex he craves until he Harleys on down the road to the next tramp-stamped, pool-shootin' little cutie. Play a pathetically sad country song and turn the page. We'll suck-up our heartache, granting that Tom will become "a good provider"; and, maybe, inspired by fear and pity the natural consequences of tragedy, we'll cave and marry the poor slob. Bill got the trophy; Tom gets the lovely consolation prizes.
My generally infallible Intuition tells me, in this competition for my affection, our lovable but hapless "nice guy" will get the prize and still finish last. When this charming, thoughtful, polite and considerate character cannot quite go wire-to-wire, my heart will break and I will compassionate the poor guy even as I choose another tougher, more genuinely respectful hombre.
I gotta confess, first and foremost, I need a man who will make me feel safe. My cave-dwelling grandmothers taught me to rely on big strong men with very large clubs and perfect willingness to use them. When wooly mammoths roam the cul de sac, a girl's gotta risk it all on the guy who reliably can shelter, feed, and clothe her. Liberal application of the big club to the wooly mammoth yields fur coats and lots of elegant firelight dinners; who can say no to a deal like that?
The primeval need for safety persists, but now I can pick-up a raspberry vinaigrette mammoth Lean Cuisine at 7/11, I don't necessarily need the man that goes with it. My definition of "safety" has evolved along with my wardrobe and the technology. Now, "safe" has a lot more to do with a man's ability to "shelter" me by providing me sanctuary and moratorium. In other words, I need a man who can make me feel as though he protects me from the horrors of the great big world all around that nasty and brutish place where banks fail, cut-throat boys try to steal my job, and would-be Vice-Presidents shoot wolves from helicopters. Does the field include a competitor who can shelter me from those atrocities? My safety also depends on opportunities to take time out from the relentless business of satisfying everybody else's demands on my time, talent, and energy. Although our circumstances and expectations have evolved, women's roles have remained pretty much the same: Everyone still demands that we nourish, compassionate, and guide all those who fall under our care. Is there a guy in the race who can give me the blissful "Calgon moment" I so desperately need?
Primeval need for "safety" also has evolved into requirements for tolerance, acceptance, and genuine understanding. The more empowered I become, the more I need a man who will collaborate with me. I wholeheartedly believe in the pop-psych adage, "Good alone, but better together." That geometry thing recurs: I believe in "coincidence," not in the sense of fortunate accident, but in the sense that our curves and angles coincide and complement.. Yes, a girl can learn a lot from dancing. I can tell whether or not a man not only can match my moves but also can anticipate and complement them. If he can do it on the dance floor, he probably can do it in bed; and if he can do it in bed, then he probably can do it when we have to snake the main drain in the house. Is there a guy in this competition who will accept and appreciate my considerable skills and bring his to complete the set? If el hombre magnifico takes the pipe wrench from my hand, he's done posse out and game over. If, however, he clamps the vice-grips on the coupling, we have found the essence of true romance.
Given all of that, I feel compelled to ask, "What, exactly, do we mean by nice'?" Are we talking genuinely thoughtful, respect-worthy guy, or are we using a pretty little euphemism for "wimp"? Are we talking courteous, considerate, empathetic dude who actually will listen to all my thoughts, wonderings, and speculations; or are we talking metrosexuala guy who waxes and mani-pedis more often than I? I'd be really uncomfortable with a guy who was cuter and better groomed than I. Are we talking about a man who will install me at the center of his world, the object of his serious attention; or are we talking about a guy who still works for his mommy and expects me to pick-up where mommy leaves-off? When the guy's mother inevitably gets to sizing-up my joints and concludes that I'm a brazen hussy, will he reply, "Yes, mom, she isthe smartest, most stylish, sassiest, and best-educated brazen hussy you'll ever wish to meet"? Will the allegedly "nice" guy show that he plays for my team, or will he compromise everything for allegiance to Mom?
How does "nice" manifest in the contender's behavior? If he brings me flowers whenever he sees me, calls every day just to pay homage to me, holds the door for me, shares his jacket when I am cold, and generally observes the proprieties, I'll give him credit for good home training. But I'll remain incapable of determining whether or not he really meets the standards for "nice." If the so-called "nice" guy orders my food for me, takes me only to his favorite places, and confuses "expensive" with "meaningful," he's finished. Of course, I'll give him credit for exquisite taste and fine income-potential; but I'll also recognize how he's subjugating me with every move he makes. If Senor Nice adores me, we're done. Of course, I am undeniably adorable, but I'm even more respectable. When the guy adores me, he compromises his dignity and power; when he respects me, he proves he's a worthy co-conspirator, a partner in my enterprise.
Ordinary, everyday, garden variety "nice" seems a little emasculate. Sure, I loved Joe Biden's tears; everybody loves a guy who can talk about Home Depot and work himself into tears in the same 2 -minute oration. When Joe showed-off his sensitive-feeling side, I cheered, and I never doubted his toughness. Joe's just as tough as I; I can work with him. Does my "nice" new friend understand the different kinds of strength men and women bring to a shared enterprise? Will my "nice" new buddy respect my exceptional pain tolerance, my endurance, and my emotional stamina, complementing it with his raw power and decisiveness? Or will he just muscle everything around, thinking he's doing me some kind of favor by doing all the work? What about the opposite of muscle man: Am I gonna intimidate the "nice" poor schmo when I can lift more 90-pound bags of concrete than he can; will I scare him when I pound a big nail in two hits? Will my "nice" new companion play both nicely and well with me, or am I gonna kick his ass? Is this sensitive man gonna pout when I win fair and square?
If, in the end, we discover "nice" actually means "strong enough always to be gentle, respectful enough always to engage me, self-assured enough to accept the full measure of my love, self-controlled enough to sublimate all that testosterone into all that really matters, and still thoughtful enough to remember all my sizes and best colors," then we have a runaway winners even car-lengths ahead of the brute in second place. I've gotta admit, though, I'm more than a little worried": If "nice" means another well-dressed, too polite poseur in a Lexus, then even with all that horsepower under his hood, he will finish dead last.
A man who knows and accepts me exactly as I am, a man who loves me because of me rather than in spite of me? That would be "nice."