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We like confident people – mostly. A confident person lights up the room every time, whether it be the lava-lamp of sexual magnetism or the neon strip of arrogance – they never go unnoticed. However, when meeting people for the first time, how do we know where the line is? Fine calibration is required, one slip and we fall off the cliff of confidence, and straight into the chasm of cockiness. Still, alliteration and smug wordplay aside – it’s rough out there.
We are constantly encouraged by the media to portray ourselves as self-assured and unremittingly positive. The online dating profile is the worst example of this, even my profile is riddled with references to cheery psycho-babble and a mania for ‘achieving goals’. Not that any particular goals are ever specified, you understand – yesterday for instance, my goal was to pick up a loaf of bread on the way home from work.
Not only did I meet this goal, but I exceeded all expectations by buying wholegrain. Doesn’t matter – still a goal.
Personally, I have always loved positive, confident women. I find them beguiling, and yet such behaviour can be portrayed as masculine, even aggressive. Admittedly, I am as paradoxical as the Archbishop of Canterbury when I say that I look upon the wonder of confident women and ‘am challenged as to how I respond to it’.
For men, the path may be wider but it is just as twisted. I enjoy good conversation and have long considered myself a raconteur, and herein lies the problem –
one minute you’re charming and cavalier, the next you’re an arrogant oaf.
My third date with Milly encapsulated all of this. She was demure, considerate and enchanting. I was everything else.
Milly’s dad was a company director. Former head girl and captain of the hockey team, Milly eschewed the corporate path laid out by her father’s connections in favour of academia. She was a history lecturer and had written several well received articles on Victorian public sanitation in London. She was my kind of girl.
It was a rainy Saturday and we were in a coffee shop in Covent Garden.
Milly said, “there was never any chance of me meeting a guy at work, they’re all lovely, well mostly, but they don’t have any people skills. They’re all super academic but when it comes to social stuff they are all borderline autistic. It’s like that film with Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise.”
“Rain Man,” I said.
“Yes, and it’s mad because nearly every one of them is like that. Let me give you an example, Brian who works in the archives, he goes out running every lunchtime and comes back drenched in sweat.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“He goes running in his suit.”
“Got it.”
“Yes, and he’s not untypical. They are all strange, I was saying to some of the girls at lunch the other day and they all agreed.”
“Wow,” I said, “I should work there.”
“Really?”
“Hell yeah, with my good looks and charisma, I would rule those Rain-Men.”
“Come on, they’re hardly fair competition.”
“Well, you know what they say, in the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king.”
“That’s not very nice. You know with that attitude, I don’t think they’d like you very much.”
“Who cares?”
“But those Rain-Men, they have a hard enough time talking to women as it is. They don’t need you bullying them as well.”
“I would be willing to sacrifice them, like they say better to reign in hell than…”
Milly raised her hand, “I get it.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s ok.”
I said under my breath, “it’s true though.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“No, go on.”
“The King of the Rain-Men does not repeat himself.”
I waved at the menu, “another tea, my lady?”
Milly declined.
