A few weeks ago in a rare moment of nostalgia, I trawled through photos on Facebook of people I knew in high school, trying to figure out if any of them had turned out hot. Once I had dug through the endless photos of babies in utes (I grew up in the country), I discovered to my delight that every guy who bullied me in high school is now a fat bogan who engages in homoerotic binge drinking on a Saturday night.
I don鈥檛 see people I went to high school with very often, but last weekend I attended the very Christian wedding of a friend I鈥檝e kept in touch with. My boyfriend graciously came along, serving as company and awkward conversation starter for various people I didn鈥檛 remember enough about to sustain a conversation with. After my Facebook adventure I hadn鈥檛 expected much in the way of a pubescent spank bank retrospective.
It turned out I was wrong. Walking away from one interaction, I went to whisper to my boyfriend that some of these guys had turned out rather fetching.
He stopped me, shook his head and said, 鈥淚 know what you鈥檙e going to say, and it鈥檚 ridiculous 鈥� you have such a predictable type.鈥�
I was outraged, and retorted, 鈥淚鈥檓 attracted to people, not types! I鈥檓 a free spirit!鈥�
But I knew deep down that he was right. The guy we鈥檇 just been talking to was my type. Things might have changed since my days of eroticising my high school bullying experiences, but perhaps that just means my tastes have narrowed.
Sometimes it takes these moments linking the past to the present to help you understand why you鈥檝e come to think the way you do. While that鈥檚 important, I worry even something as nebulous as 鈥渕y type鈥� could be continually defined by factors outside my control.
Of course, the wedding didn鈥檛 end in an evening of passion with my boyfriend and the predictable guy, and that鈥檚 probably for the best. Next time I鈥檒l try to think a little more outside the box.
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