“He’s Not My Type” Could Be “The One”

by Leslie Bennetts

He wasn’t my type. We worked together, and he kept asking me to do things with him, in a collegial sort of way. But when my friends asked if he might be a romantic possibility, I assured them that he wasn’t my type at all. I had always been attracted to powerful older men—the kind who charm the pants off every woman they meet. You can imagine how well this worked out for me.

But Jeremy was a peer. Instead of being a generation older and far more successful than I, he was almost three years younger and a fellow reporter for the same newspaper. I was used to aggressive guys whose idea of a good time was hurtling down a black diamond run. Jeremy was a bespectacled theater expert who had spent the Vietnam War years as a conscientious objector teaching emotionally disturbed children.

When I wore high heels, I was almost as tall as he was—quite a change from my previous loves, most of whom towered over me from formidable heights. Unfortunately, they were as domineering emotionally as they were dominating physically, which was one of several reasons I had sworn off men. But Jeremy was patient and persistent; no matter how many invitations I declined, he didn’t take offense and always tried again.

As cultural news reporters, we were both required to see the same plays, so we’d go together. Afterward, starving, we’d go to dinner. Our conversations grew more intimate. As the months rolled by, my friends became increasingly suspicious: Jeremy again? Are you sure there’s nothing going on here?” “Absolutely not,” I insisted. “He’s not my type at all.”

And, if truth be told, I was pretty sure I wasn’t his type, either. His previous wife was very short, dark, introverted, and Jewish. I am a tall, blond, extroverted WASP. We were clearly not a match.