Fifty First (J) Dates: The Metrosexual

I like style. I like fahshion. I like high shoes. I also like boys. But I’m not entirely sure how much I like them mixing. It’s appreciated when a guy has good style, but when he is too tressed, fresh from an eyebrow wax, (gentlemen – unibrow is another story entirely), I’m not sure how attractive it is.

Sometimes it’s nice to have a guy who thinks that “greige” might be a type of food or country, instead of the new fall “it” color.

(I’m sorry, but who decides this stuff? Is there a round table of fashion people who line up neutral colors and deem one, “greige,” the ugliest of them all, the new cool thing to wear? I’ve decided that “purpunk,” a purple-pink mixture, should be sent down the runways instead. Spread it like fetch. Undeniably the best part of that movie is when Gretchen ends up in the clique of Asian girls, talking in Thai about cuticles.)

Where we went: The Gibson. This place is awesome. It’s a speakeasy, you knock on a random door. Which makes you feel really cool. Until you remember you’re at a bar in DC.

What I wore: Habitual crazy tie-dyed jeans, Calvin Klein stilettos, the usual Joie shirt that I brought back post-TomatoSauceGate June 2010. I almost feel like I should write about what he wore, because I think he had his way with a Barney’s Co-Op mannequin in a darkened alley, and not in a good way.

This date sort of reminded me of an episode of MTV’s The City. I’m so glad I make such wildly intellectual cultural references, but my Sartre post comes later. So Kafka-esque. But there’s this episode of Antiques Roadshow where Whitney Port (Dear Whitney, please, please give me your insane gams) goes on a blind date with a boy who refers to Louis Vuitton as “LV.” He is obscenely metrosexual, or potentially batting for the other team. She has no idea what he’s talking about, and its hilarity in a handbasket. Now if Whitney were a Hebrew brunette with a hankering for long-winded analogies, we’d be the same person.

Anywhoozle, this boy dressed like a model. Now, I like it when guys dress well – some nice loafers, a shirt that fits, hair that doesn’t look like you just rolled out of your seedy bed that probably has remnants of 15 turkey sandwiches in it.  But this was a little much. He was nice, I guess. I just kept noticing that he looked like he robbed Tom Ford, without the excruciatingly hot mug.

The conversation was good, I’m fairly certain we talked about shopping, but it just wasn’t my cup of Kombucha. He worked in PR, I liked him all right, but I think I like a little bit of dude in my Man Iced Tea. This was almost like reverse-superficiality. But when it’s too much, it’s just too much. That’s a “whole lotta look,” in the words of Mr. Tim Gunn. Heidi would’ve auf’ed it immediately, and Nina Garcia would’ve sat there looking like a dour pipe-cleaner, per usual.

As we stood outside in the balmy night air, air-kissing goodbye, the moonlight reflected off of his perfectly coiffed mane. I heard a faint, high-pitched moaning in the distance.

It was Scott Disick, crumpled in a little ball on the ground. He was bemoaning the theft of his muted lilac argyle cardigan. “You should give it back,” I said, “if for no other reason than to mop up the blood from the three puppies he killed with his sadistic smile.”

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