Anatomy of Niceness

Pretty Lady is a bit tired of hearing that women will "claw their way over a dozen nice guys to get to the jerk." (I don't remember where I read this, but somehow it sticks in my mind.) On some level, there is a bit of truth to this statement; the woman's virtue of compassion, when taken to the extreme, leads to co-dependency. Thus when a swarthy, moody gentleman is lounging in a corner, exuding misogyny, cynicism, and alienated anomie, the Good Woman will immediately spring to attention, and swarm her way over to heal the devil's wounded soul. This is unfortunate, but it is the Way We Are.

However, in my experience, it is simply not true that Nice Guys always lose out on the goodies. Pretty Lady admits that her own taste in men is terrible. She has always been the first in line to soak up abuse from a moody stranger. However, her terrible taste does not extend to her male friends. She could name you a dozen bright fellows off the top of her head, with whom she has shared many a late-night study session, bourbon and anchovy pizza, art opening or tractor pull, who are Nice Guys par excellence. Many of them were also, in college at least, pimply-faced dweebs with the sexual magnetism of a doorknob.

This dweeb factor did not, however, prevent a single one of them from drawing the attention of one or two of the classiest, brainiest, most quietly beautiful and nurturing women on the market, and marrying them before they turned thirty. No, the women did not swarm; if you want swarming, get a tattoo and an alcohol problem. But classy women are not fools. They appreciate quality when they find it.

The thing is, women have Intuition. This means that they will frequently overlook what is staring them in the face, but things that are hidden will be sensed immediately. So it goes that an openly philandering, rage-filled hoodlum will always incur a second glance, but a mild-mannered milquetoast whose smile hides a smouldering resentment, insecurity and hostility toward women will give her the creeps. She'll feel vaguely guilty about it, but she will flee.

So, gentlemen, all you self-defined Nice Guys out there who cannot get a date, it is time for some brutal honesty. Look yourself in the mirror. Ask yourself this question: am I truly a Nice Guy? Or am I, deep down, a Smarmy Twerp?

Let me elaborate. A Smarmy Twerp is prone to whining. He claims that he is nice, he is kind, he is a Good Listener; but if he were really listening he'd know that truthfully, he's Not Her Type. A Smarmy Twerp will be unctuous toward everything that is female and has a pulse, and glom onto the first one who is polite to him, no matter how little they have in common. A Smarmy Twerp is prone to lie to himself--about his looks, his intelligence, his income, his motives. He will talk to anyone who listens; he will talk, and talk, and talk about things which are inappropriate and boring to his audience. If he listens to a woman, it will likely be to commiserate with her sufferings, and thus bring the topic back round to whining about himself.

A large number of Smarmy Twerps of my acquaintance have been, consciously or no, setting themselves up for failure and rejection. It is important to understand when a woman is Out Of Your League. Being, dare I say, somewhat brilliant and rather striking myself, I have noticed that there are two types of men who ask me out; those who are roughly in the ballpark and very, very brave, and those who are too dumb to have a clue. Men who are reasonably bright tend to be intimidated. Do not think this is arrogance; I have lived awhile. I know.

Just as many a policeman is, deep down, a wannabe criminal without the nerve to face the consequences, many a pseudo Nice Guy is a creep without the guts to admit it. If he woke up one morning with Mel Gibson's face and Vin Diesel's charisma, he'd be the first to line up the bitches and start sowing a crop of fatherless children. He's usually a closet chauvinist; if he didn't believe that women were inherently inferior, he'd never have the nerve to pat the elbow of a woman whose I.Q. and social station is two standard deviations above his own.

One of the things I've noticed, having passed the age of thirty, is that I am now swatting away men in their fifties and sixties by the truckload. They're not distinguished professional widowers with a house and an IRA, either; they're dim non-starters with potbellies and bad teeth, who will assuredly be dependent upon Social Security for the bulk of their retirement plan. It's as though they assume that any single woman over thirty is on the "clearance" rack, no matter how many princes she spurned in her prime. Yes, lovely younger women do marry potbellied old geezers from time to time. But take a look at that potbellied old geezer's bank account, and be realistic. Money and power are sexy; being chained to an impoverished loser is not.

Gentlemen, please get a clue. Women are inclined, by nature and culture, to be polite. It is a rare girl who will say to a man's face, "I'm out of your fucking league. Get a life." We will be sweet; we will say we are busy, we will claim to be brokenhearted, we will laugh prettily and smile wistfully when we decline your charming invitation. If you hate us for doing so, that is your problem. But take a good hard look at your own soul before you blame us.