My idea of the perfect woman

Chris Carmona

“There’s nothing left to say,” I said, unironically, to my last serious girlfriend.

There was no real reason for me to break off our relationship, but I didn’t see it going anywhere, so I cut it off. Because I knew how dramatic she was, and because I knew that my break up would side-swipe her, I chose a public setting: our cubbies. We were five years old.

Of course I’ve had girlfriends since kindergarten, but none of them have really mattered. I actually had a girlfriend for nearly four years during high school, at which time I was, hilariously, at the peak of my promiscuity. I cheated on her so regularly that she didn’t even feign denial; she openly resented me.

We’d go through this bi-weekly routine where I’d perform this sort of anti-proposal, getting down on one knee and begging her from the bottom of my heart that we break up. She’d give this exceptionally polished response veiled with a sigh that would make her words actually echo in her mother’s waspy voice: “We can’t. It’d be too awkward for all of our friends.”

I’d nod in agreement like some thoughtless, plastic bobble-head doll and go sleep with her friends.

So like I said, age five.

But I often wonder: what if I actually do find a girl who’s compelling enough for me to pursue? What if desire and infatuation click so spontaneously one fateful afternoon, that I find a new love-of-my-life in the cubby that is romance? Well, I hope she’d be something like this:

Because I’m blind to anything not visible (that was meant to be a pun; I’m only noting it because I have no faith in my audience), I’m going to start with the superficial. I’m not completely unreasonable with height. She’d have to be between five-foot-two and five-foot-seven, but anything taller would begin to question my already teetering manhood.

Now, I know it’s tasteless to have some sort of weight requirement for women, so this is why I’ve made one: 100-130, relatively. Her skin should be naturally olive-toned, and her eyes should be anything but brown. Heads will roll if her eyes are as boring as mine.

Her most important facial feature would be her lips, which have to be full, or I’ll make them full (said in a drunken Southern drawl). Her teeth must be un-British, and her eyebrows must be un-eastern Arab thick but also not stencil-point thin. She’ll need to have a defined bone structure, but I don’t want cheek bones that I’d associate with a lion. Slightly squinty eyes would also be preferred. No, demanded. Not Renee- the high noon sun haunts my sight-Zellwegger squinty, but maybe more like that woman from Grey’s Anatomy, Ellen Pompeo, only with bigger eyes.

Her hair isn’t a huge deal for me, as long as it’s blonde in the summer and either brunette or black in the winter (depending on her overall look – if she can pull off black, go black). It should also be wavy when blonde and straight when black, no longer than below her shoulder blades and no shorter than the top of her shoulders. Other than that, she can do whatever she wants with it; I mean, it’s her hair.

Oh yea, 34-C (or a full 36-B); anything bigger and it gets too maternal for me.

Now onto the important details: her character. First, she can’t have pink font on AIM. Also, she can’t, in any sort of internet forum, quote Coco Chanel. Now that I’ve omitted 75 percent of our female student body, I can get down to brass tacks.

She should have a sincere interest in bohemian aspects of lifestyle, but she shouldn’t wear these convictions on her sleeve. The last thing I want is a girl who wears non-prescription, thick, black-framed glasses and purposely mismatches her socks while changing her hair color more often than Clementine in Eternal Sunshine. Speaking of which, she has to know who Charlie Kaufman is, and not because she likes his screenplays.

She also can’t be passionately against those things that our culture thrives upon. She should have a skeptical and distant interest in popular culture, inexplicably staying updated with the intricate details of untalented celebrities’ lives while still noting the absurdity of the publics’ adoration for these people.

She shouldn’t be opposed to working out but she shouldn’t be opposed to eating. She should like sushi. She should find Thursdays to be overrated. She should dress in a unique but subtle fashion. She shouldn’t like or hate going to the bar. She should be interested in whatever field she studies. She must listen to NPR.

Paradoxically, she shouldn’t be predictable. She should be so whimsical that when she shows up at my apartment, I will be pleasantly surprised. Likewise, she should be independent. Similarly, paradoxically, she should be worried when I don’t speak to her daily. She should answer her phone. She shouldn’t expect me to answer mine.

She should be a complicated person. She should have unreasonable goals, none of which involve becoming domesticated. She shouldn’t be afraid of being domesticated. She shouldn’t have a predetermined amount of children that she will give birth to. She should love children.

Her room shouldn’t be particularly clean. She should love her family unconditionally. She should hate women’s sports simply because they’re less entertaining. She should be witty but reserved. She shouldn’t let me order dinner for her. She should let me order the wine. She shouldn’t have nostalgia for chivalry.

She should write, even if she doesn’t think what she writes is good. She should find time to do her laundry, and she shouldn’t be disgusted that I haven’t found time to do mine, despite having re-read a novel this afternoon. She should argue about politics with me, not because she disagrees, but because it’s fun.

Most importantly, she should hate this article. She should disagree with everything I’ve said and should disagree with me as a person. She should dye her hair black in the summer to spite me and punch me in the lips if I comment on hers. She should steal one of each of my socks as a form of revenge and should buy me “Sex and The City” on DVD for Christmas if I act too misogynistic. But she should ultimately realize that her idea of me isn’t really me at all and should leave. And after a certain amount of time, I should start all over again.