Obviously I’m not the world’s most handsome man… I’m the world’s second most handsome man! And all I can say is that G-d must love ugly people…because he made so many of us. Fortunately I have good-looking kids…thank goodness my ex-wife cheated on me…

My recent and ongoing weekend warrior was asking me the other day why I think she and I have been hitting it off so well. That’s a euphemism for: What do you like about me?

And to respond to something like that with: ‘You mean, besides your breast?’ is not exactly going to get a horny man what he’s looking to get – that night… or ever again.

And I speak from painful experience. Only a man can understand duh ineffable agony.

Hmm… these sorts of questions are always such a PMS mine field. I try to act like I lost my hearing, along with my luggage, and am waiting for it to be delivered…

Was that the doorbell?

But then Yasmine persisted with one of those freezing smiles that is really more like a demanding: ‘Well!?’

And I was trapped in one of those ‘Let’s Talk’ moments. And when you don’t allow TV in your house you do do a lot of talking anyway. Which is why I never stop talking so as to keep the conversation away from heading into one of those ‘let’s talk’ executions.

It’s painful, because all you end up accomplishing is wasting an overpriced Viagra pill you took almost 4 hours ago – the operative limit.

Hmm…

Oy-vey-iz-mir…

So I squeezed out an obsequious smile that said: “But of course!” and turned on the doting charm.

I mean I really have been enjoying this woman.

We are a good match:

She is Haitian. I am Jewish.

She speaks three languages. I speak body.

She is smart. I am a smart-ass.

She is divorced. I am excommunicated.

Her two kids love her. My two misanthropes want to see a furniture van run over me – again and again — until I am road-kill.

Her hair is cropped very short to fully expose a beautiful face. Mine is very long to conceal a mug undoubtedly posted on not-wanted-dead-or-alive.

She likes doing lots of stuff. And I like doing ‘it!’

Hmm…

Obviously we’re a match made in voodoo heaven.

So why are we hitting it off? That is, in spite of one ‘seriously superficial’ flaw. And I’ll get to that after a few more sit-ups here.

Anyway, I paraded out my ‘S’-list of qualifiers of what I seek in a woman, while also trumpeting a pageantry of passion a woman wants to hear from a man.

Sort of.

I said what I enjoyed about her was simply that she hit most of my S’s: ‘You are smart, sexy, sociable, stylish and sensual. You smile with tolerance, smolder with laughter and see my craziness for the comedy it is…’

I paused. And smiled my pearly whites in a Cheshire half-moon. I was a man who knows he’s done something good… Sincere flattery will get you to the sweet spot. Still, I desperately needed to quit while my stock was rising like my pup tent. But I knew that wasn’t gonna happen.

‘Have you been drinking?’ she teased.

‘Yep,’ I readily confessed. ‘But I didn’t swallow.’

At that she giggled, and then pursued to know which of my S’s she didn’t hit.

Oy-vey-iz-mir. I gotta learn misdirection. Or at least how to look you directly in the eye and lie, lie, lie. I am just no good at it. That’s one of the top 1000 reasons why I don’t play strip poker.

Hmm…

I began with some pandering theatrics: ‘You don’t sip whiskey, or any alcohol…And you don’t smoke cigars…’

She laughed, suspiciously. And then merely pushed for more. ‘And…And what else?’

Well…and here’s where I reckoned I’d be moving from the big-house to the outhouse. I inhaled and held onto the extra oxygen – once again without swallowing.

‘Slim…’ I squeaked like an exhaling balloon.

Her countenance was not so amused.

‘Slim?’ she repeated with some obvious disbelief. ‘Slim?!’

‘You asked,’ I said, pushing away any mea culpa. ‘You’re not slim and trim like I am accustomed.’

And then I babbled something about it being one of my mental maladies for which there is no chemo-therapy. You know, something Freudian. I got to jabbering about my mother also being big breasted, full-figured and zaftig. She was perpetually on one diet or another trying to get petite and slim like the dentist’s wife who got the men in the synagogue yanking on more than their prayer shawls.

Nonetheless, at that moment it was as if the music in our home movie just went into a padded cell. Dead. And not possum dead…but ‘uh-oh’ dead silence. As they say in cowboy and Indian movies: It’s too quiet out there.

I know that even the world’s ‘second-most’ handsome, thin, sophisticated men often fall madly in love with larger women, we just never see it on TV. Which is yet another reason why I tossed the boob-less tube out the third story window years ago. That is, when I was swallowing lots of bourbon.

And I should point out, delightfully, that Yasmine does exercise and belongs to a hiking club. But…but…she is what she is. And she didn’t need to remind me that in other cultures, such as hers, hearty, robust, bigger women are more cherished. In Latin America women seek to be more voluptuous. And if you gaze upon the incredible flow of the meat everywhere on the ‘beautiful’ Renaissance body it is a complete anathema to the slim and trim fashion of today.

And you can’t blame this on fashion designers.  When I talk to women around the world, rich and poor, young and old, intellectual and not, what they want to be is skinny. You ask them, ‘What is your dream?’ It’s to be skinny. That’s all they want.

And even though it seems in our society that food has taken the place of sex, nothing still tastes as good as skinny feels.

The truth seems to be that hearty, robust and large people are so rarely included in our visual culture. Fat is perceived as a blot on the landscape of sleek and slim. It’s obvious that being slim is the present elitism. Thinness today says that you are richer, smarter and more successful than the overweight masses.

Like me.

But of course!

While all this bothers me that it truly bothers me, I explained, I can’t help myself. I am acculturated. And, evidently, deep down, I am very superficial.  Yet from here to eternity it’s been no secret that the highest prize in a world of men is the most beautiful woman available on your arm… That a woman’s appeal to others can be a strategic asset or liability.

Hmm…

Of course, beauty is in the eye of the beer holder. And what I related to Yasmine is that she is not only a beautiful person that fulfills many of my S’s, but yet one more that I find as important – and perhaps more so.

That is ‘sharpness.’ In other words, wit.

Because whether you are ugly or handsome isn’t an achievement. Sharpness and humor is. And I find no woman ugly who has it. And no beautiful woman agreeable without it.

At that I laid out my cards: “When I first entered that restaurant for our initial meeting you were obviously striking. And then you spoke. And I thought: This doesn’t happen to me… Bright AND attractive…”

And at that, Yasmine looked up at me with those big round Caribbean eyes. She patted an empty sofa cushion and beckoned me to get my skinny, white, Jewish behind down next to her.

“So we’re doing pretty good then,” she said.

“So far, so good,” I said.

“That’s all I can ask for.”

“Well,” I began with a devilish smile. “There is one more thing…”

And dats yDrewIS on dis penal colony…

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