Searching for Waldo
Written January 27, 2003

Chances are that if you ask the average Laurier student what they look for in a significant other, they’ll spout the usual list of cliché adjectives at you: nice, funny, attractive, smart, ambitious, necrophiliac… and it goes on and on, but always adds up to the general idea that they want perfection embodied in physical form. Unfortunately, there has to be a balance between high standards and realistic thought – for example, all of the flawless examples of humanity who represent the pinnacle of dating achievement are much too good for you, and are probably schlocking Playboy bunnies or Ben Affleck or something. Sorry, but it’s true and you know it.

If everyone held out on hooking up until they found someone possessing every single desirable attribute on their wish-list, the world population would begin to spiral unrelentingly downwards and Louie’s would be out of business within a week. No-sex extinction is obviously unacceptable to us as a species, and accordingly people make concessions when looking for mates. If you’ve ever thought something like “Well, she might not be the most slender girl I’ve ever seen, but she’s the best heavyweight boxer of all time and I dig that,” or “That guy’s newspaper column picture is weird, but I’ve heard he’s wicked-good in the sack!” then you’ve made a value concession, weighing positive points against negative in an attempt to judge your level of attraction.

After listening to someone ramble through the stereotypical list patiently for a few minutes, the next logical step is to abruptly break in and correct yourself with, “No, no, I meant to ask you what your type is,” which is basically a way of asking them to stop with the bullshit and move into the real world for just a second. The simple truth is that, in the absence of Mr. or Ms. Flawless McPerfect, people subconsciously select a few key attributes which they realistically base a large majority of their search for companionship upon, organized under a label which they call their type.

A type can be purely based upon physical specifics, such as height, hair colour or racial persuasion, or it can be centred on similar interests, activity involvement, religion, or similar social connections. They can be quirky or mundane, extremely broad or rigidly narrow, ranging from “I need a woman who can beat me at Mario Kart,” to “My boy needs to laugh at the Family Circus comic every time he reads it, be seven feet tall with red hair and have an intense love for open heart surgery.”

Me, I love punk girls. Skate shoes, hardcore belts and Propagandhi shirts…oh man. My friends don’t necessarily understand this passion, and neither do I entirely, but this fairly broad generalization rules my libido unrelentingly. I can pick out a single girl in a NOFX hoodie from a mile away without even trying and unconsciously gravitate towards her like I’m insistently being pulled by a sexy, angst-ridden magnet. It’s a life-sized game of Where’s Waldo, and I’m the best finder in the entire universe.

However, types are continuously shifting as people grow and mentally re-evaluate priorities and chances of success. While some examples of this are extreme, such as Jack Black’s dramatic shift in interest from attractive, uninteresting shrews to an enormous, yet reasonably personable, ogre-woman in Shallow Hal, moderate alterations are also possible. I’ve seen friends who have had repeatedly horrible success rates with co-dependent, clingy bookworm girls shift their attention to more free-spirited and independent types and meet with great success, and vice versa. What you like one year might be repulsive the next, and the search for monogamous joy is far from static.

So next time you’re wasted and hitting on someone at the bar and get told that you’re just not their type, don’t despair. For now you might be a random obstacle standing between them and their Waldo-magnet, but give it a year and that same person might be looking for you to be the next best thing to perfect.

I think maybe I wrote this hoping to meet more punk girls. It just meant that I scared off non-punk girls, I'll bet.