It’s a funny thing: if boys noticed me en masse in high school, I was not aware. Sure, some guys pursued me, and I got cat-called, and tickled, and even once got my ass grabbed during a fire drill evacuation. But I wasn’t the girl every guy wanted to ask to the prom.
And then I graduated.
And well over 50% of the guys I went to high school with have pursued me since then.
Don’t ask me. I don’t get it.
Recently a former classmate tried to get me date him with the claim that he makes six figures (or so he repeated over a dozen times at dinner), and while I am happy for him and his success in his chosen career, I don’t give a lick for how much money he makes.
He’s trying to impress me with the wrong thing.
Now maybe some women would jump at this opportunity, seeing a Prada handbag or Manolo Blahnik stilettos in their future.
I don’t care how much money he makes. Mr. Right must be gainfully employed, of course, but it’s more important to me that he be invested in his work, that it be meaningful to him in some way, that he had the courage to pursue his passion.
Maybe I’m just bizarre in feeling that way, but I do. Much like I feel a woman’s value goes beyond her body, I feel a man’s value goes beyond his earning potential.
Six figures is nice. Six figures has the potential to diminish a lot of worries. But if six figures is your main selling point, your greatest asset, the attribute you define yourself by, you’re not for me.
Cross him off the list.
Wanna Sass Back?