no type

the princess and the jester

My mom works at a bar, and she spent the whole dinner telling me that yesterday a tall blonde guy came in for drinks and she couldn’t stop thinking about how perfect he’d be for me.

“He’s from Alaska,” she said.

“I don’t know anyone from Alaska,” I replied.

“He was exactly your type.”

I don’t know if my mom knows what my type is. I don’t even know what my type is.

I remember once, a girl from my class—after noticing that all the guys I’d had crushes on looked completely different—said, “Gina, I don’t think you have a type. I think you have more of a lifestyle.”

I thought she was right. They all looked completely different but were somehow the same in spirit, which kind of sent me into psychosis because how could the same person look so different? I was always waiting for them to remove a mask and say, “I’ve been lying to you this whole time. Actually, it’s me:__(insert past situationship name)__.”

Whatever.

Maybe I don’t have a type because I have more of a lifestyle (? or maybe I don’t have a type because I don’t really go on dates. I don’t arrange a date and time to meet up with boys. And since I don’t plan who I’m gonna be with, I don’t really get to choose.

My romances are more like a we only have tonight kind of thing, built on sporadic decisions at the club or a bar or a dinner party. As if life were choosing for me, and all I had to do was be there. In this aspect of my life—like in many others—I rely less on plans and more on faith. Which might also be my refusal to assume any sort of responsibility, but who cares?

What I’m trying to say is that I’m all in for the fun, less for the looks. Although I do need to be superficial sometimes. I draw the line at lisps.

It had always worked great that way, and I never thought things needed to change until the past few months, when I started thinking maybe I could shift the dynamic and take a few risks. Try to train my nervous system and finally meet a guy without it turning into a mortifying experience. Not something that would give me anxious anorexia and digestion problems, but rather a bit of character development. An exploration to see what’s out there and finally understand what it is that I like, what works and what doesn’t.

That’s why, when that Italian DJ sent me a DM inviting me to see him play, I told him I’d think about it. I knew from the start that I was gonna go, but I never said I would because I wanted to be mysterious. I figured I’d just show up unannounced. Catch him with his hands on the turntables.

That Friday, I walked into the bar where he was playing and went straight to the console to find him. I stood in front of him, waving my hand in the air with a smile. I’m not gonna lie, I was excited. Maybe I was about to meet my next boyfriend. My first boyfriend. When you’ve never had a boyfriend, you don’t know how it’ll unfold. Everything you do feels decisive, charged, like it could turn into something. I say otherwise, but I love not having a boyfriend. I’m in a perpetual state of possibly life-changing moments. And then nothing happens. But it’s nice to carry that feeling around.

The Italian DJ guy looked up at me, one ear of his headphones pinned to his shoulder, and asked, “Do we know each other?” which was not exactly the reaction I expected, but it meant my plan had worked. I was so mysterious he had no idea who I was.

“I’m Gina,” I said, putting on my best Gina face and pointing at it.

He looked at me again, narrowing his eyes, then nodded in recognition.

“I’ll finish playing soon and come find you.”

When his hour-long set of dark, monotonous music came to an end—something I hadn’t expected either, because his IG gave more of a dance-house vibe—he found me at the bar. With a shot of tequila in hand, I asked him if he wanted to split it, but before he could answer, I’d already downed it.

We stood near the bar, having what I couldn’t exactly call a conversation, because my words seemed to dissolve into the air while he barely caught them. I smiled, laughed, and brought up football, TV shows, actors, food, music, and my childhood, all within the span of fifteen minutes, while he made occasional small gestures in response. He said he was from Rome. Then looked the other way.

I analyzed his movements, trying to understand why, if he had texted me first and invited me to see him play, he was acting like this. Like he didn’t want me to be there at all, but part of him did. He wanted me to be there and act exactly the way I was acting so he could feel cool and special. But what about me?

Unfortunately, this is a type of guy I know all too well. Guys who are the princess, and I’m their jester. Or I’m the princess who’s funnier than the jester. Or maybe I’m both—princess and jester—and they’re nothing. Just a gust of wind brushing my face, a flicker of inspiration at dawn. Something nice (decent) to look at. And I’m their joke-cracker. Firecracker. Ritz cracker they chew on so their brains can release a little dopamine.

The Italian DJ guy was exactly like that. So infuriatingly predictable, that when he grabbed me by the waist and pulled me toward him to kiss me, I rolled my eyes and said, “You’re so boring.”

“And you’re crazy,” he replied, probably thinking I might take it as an insult, but it only made my point stronger. I’ve heard that one too many times.

Standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by everyone else who was having a better time than I was, he leaned in to kiss me again. I pushed him away and told him no. I didn’t want to do it, and I definitely wasn’t going to do it there, in front of all my friends and his. He pulled back and complained, making that classic Italian hand gesture that means you’re being too difficult.

He glanced around and told me to follow him. He headed for the door and ran down the stairs, racing ahead and leaving me behind. There were five flights of stairs, and I was wearing heels. Leaning over the railing, I called after him, “That’s not how you do it. You’re supposed to take my hand and make sure I don’t trip.”

Straight-faced as I trailed behind him, he muttered, “You’re not going to be the one to lecture me on manners.”

I might have no type, but there are some things I cannot stand. I draw the line at lisps and disrespect.