For most of my 15-year dating career, I went for Fledglings, Makeshift Men, pre-release beta tests of the fully formed adult male. Like Rusty, the dread-locked guitarist with groupies to spare whom I followed to various smoky, sticky-floored venues in college, hoping he’d recognize me from anthropology class. Guys whose giant charisma, outsider cool or longer-than-purely-business hair stoked my sense of adventure and ate my own — often annoying — level of maturity for breakfast.
I was drawn to men who were nothing like the soft-spoken, principled and straight-laced person who had been the dominant male presence in my life so far: my retired CPA father. Keep reading »