I'm not my type's type
On navigating dating as the self-proclaimed sitcom-best-friend
I was swiping through a dating app when a guy caught my eye.
Objectively hot, he was 6’2”, built, had olive skin and messy brown hair, and wore a black t-shirt in 4/6 photos. My ex knows better than anyone: a plain black tee is my absolute kryptonite.
Without thinking, my fingers click clacked on my screen, responding to his prompt “tell me your most unusual but useful skill…,” with “knowing so many facts about Ben Affleck.” I hit send without thinking twice, my brain finally catching up to my fingers.
Hopefully he has a sense of humour, I thought. If he didn’t, this was moot point. He’d never match with me based on just my looks.
The same day I swiped for Black T-Shirt guy, I was surprised to see another hot boy pop up on my dating app algorithm.
He was Chris Evans, but younger. Effortlessly and probably unknowingly, his photos conveyed some mix of “I was raised rich” (tennis, unbuttoned linen, hiking somewhere international) and “I’m hot” (Nike tube socks in 3/6 pics, shirtless in 2). While he clearly indulged in outdoorsy activities, let me stress that he was anything but granola: not an Arc’teryx or Yeti product placement in sight. His mischievous smile made me flutter with small butterflies.
He was so my type.
But of course, this guy was probably much too good for me. Photogenically and unequivocally, he belonged with someone a little more… Americana. Think Acquired Style (other girls), over the sitcom-best-friend (me).
But with the confidence of a keyboard warrior, I threw a Hail Mary double tap at his tennis pic and willed myself into dementia as his profile disappeared, as to not expect a reply.
But he bit. We ended up texting (a perfect balance of flirtiness and seriousness), to the point where he’d even send me audio messages about his day and double text me when I didn’t reply.
And truly, that’s all I needed. Attention from someone that I felt was out of my league. Now I was the captivating one.
I know all too well that I’m not Black T-Shirt or Tennis guy’s type. Actually, I know all too well that I’m not my type’s type.
And this isn’t a thinly veiled plea for validation: I know I’m pretty-ish, but after 29 years, I can definitively say that the guys I like hardly (if ever) are the first to send me likes on dating apps. After all, I’m a brown girl attracted to a certain type of white guy (you know, the Mr. Big kind, and not the Jim Halperts).
But thankfully, with this self-awareness comes an understanding of my strengths: I’m naturally unserious, can be flirty, and have a tendency to opt for clever over earnest. I’m a conversationalist, and I use that to reel in guys who would never see a girl like me on their Instagram FYP.
And is it unrealistic to think I’d end up with a guy like this? Maybe. But I tend to sway to the side of possibility over impossibility. After all, my Mom loves to remind me that God removed my [now ex] fiancé from my life for a reason. I know this isn’t at all the reason she’s alluding to, but maybe I was destined to be with a Mr. Big…
The weeks leading up to him breaking up with me, my [now ex] fiancé began messaging another girl — a friend of a friend — citing that he was attracted to her. Feed filled with GRWMs and Revolve hauls, she looked just like every other brunette content creator on TikTok (which yes, was/is her job).
But apart from looks and not having a Linktree in bio, what did she have that I didn’t? I made good money, am athletic, can be funny, and look just like her in a bikini… only I have bigger boobs, if that matters.
It felt shitty to know he was attracted to her. Would I rather be with Gio The Line Cook or Brokeback Contessa (if he was straight)? Like hypothetically, I guess? But in reality, no. I wanted to be with the person I felt so deeply connected to and loved endlessly with my entire heart. I couldn’t fathom being with anyone else. It stung, knowing that he didn’t feel the same way, referencing something as benign as looks.
And there you go. That’s probably why I’m reaching, chasing the type of guys I am right now. It’s not about hitting a 5-date milestone or dating them seriously, and not for a second am I lusting over having them call me their “girlfriend.” All I need, all I want, is to be told I’m hot.
It seems silly and immature because I know we’re supposed to find self-love from within, but the external validation of being wanted is reminding me I’m pretty. And it’s actively healing the part of me that doesn’t feel so beautiful, after this heartbreak.
Writing this was self-reflection, in a way. I started this essay thinking I’d just be chronicling my recent experience talking to guys I considered hotter than me, but it turned into an understanding of where this insecurity is coming from. And in a convoluted way, a reminder that it’s ok to not feel beautiful all the time, and that hearing it from other’s can be healing. Here’s to continuing to grow our love for ourselves, whichever way we can… xx
this was so honest and resonant. I felt seen reading this. the “I’m not my type’s type” hit like a brick and a hug simultaneously. thank you for writing through the ache with so much wit and clarity. sending you love and also… yes to the bigger boobs part. xo
I really think dating apps can really bring out this almost desperate validation seeking behavior by default. It feeds off of people pushing their standards, or for settling for less than they desire so they don’t feel alone. Great writing!