A Commentary on the Brain

I like to think I am generally realistic about my overall appeal. A guy like me could do way worse for himself than to step back like I do, take a good long look in the mirror like I've done, and evaluate like I like to do.

I am not a handsome man.

When I hear women talk about men they find attractive and alluring, the features of note are culled from a very narrow range. This one's tall, that one's got a great bod, this other has dreamy eyes. Even a sexy voice can take a fellow of less-than-stellar looks into the realm of male deliciousness.

I have none of these features.

I'm not even six feet tall, which seems to be a good standard baseline for one's height having any bearing on his physical attractiveness. I'm overweight; neither slim nor toned nor muscular enough to have that genuine traditional attractiveness that your average movie star has, nor roly-poly enough to be "cute". It's really this awkward state of lead-buttedness that I have, one where I can't play for either team. I'm not an overwhelming fatso, but while there's muscle under there, you'd never know it. I don't have dreamy eyes; they're perpetually just a little bit bloodshot, set a little too low in my head and have too many prematurely aged lines under them for that. I don't have a cute smile. I don't have the nice strong chin I used to, because I haven't got that nice fat-free jawline I had back in high school. My head is enormous and my ears are tiny. I have my father's nose and that is no complement at all to my father. I don't have sexy, luxuriant hair because the hair I DO have is far too wiry; the rest has surrendered to the slow recession of the hairline and thinning at the crown. I don't even have a sexy voice. It tends toward rasp and excessive variability in pitch according to the whims of my allergies from one day to the next, and I assure you it is an unpleasant thing to listen to me narrate. There is truly no factor about my physical presence that is in any way remarkable.

That's why you're missing out on my mind.

I'm probably one of the smarter people you know. I haven't read all your favorite books or seen all your favorite movies, I know; but I know all about storytelling and can still talk with you in an animated and informed way about the things you like. I know how to listen to you. I know how to speak to you rather than at you. I can convince you on Monday that I am absentminded and inattentive for the sole purpose of seeing you light up with delight on Tuesday with some clever remark or welcome gesture which acts upon what I learned about you. I can tell you things about yourself that you didn't know but probably should. I can see into the heart of a problem you have and tell you a good way of solving it that you hadn't thought of before. I can entertain you. I can make you laugh. I can make you think. I can make you see my side, and I can make myself see yours. I can disagree with you and still hold you in a place of respect. I know how to impress you with wealthy repositories of knowledge on a vast swath of subjects and still be able to let you teach me something I didn't know. I can warn you of danger. I can outfox someone who's hurting you. I can introduce you to people you'd like. I can listen to you so intently, extrapolating and deducing from the little things you say to find out what you're preoccupied with so that I can be of greater assistance to you. I can tell if you're a good person to be friends with; and after a few conversations, if we're still talking, you're already in.

I am smart enough be an agent of good in your life.

I don't look like much, though.

I'm smart enough to know that that's why you won't talk to me.

And no amount of well-wishes, of knowing what's troubling you and knowing how to fix it, or of thinking I could be really, really good to you will change the fact that my overly-lined, bloodshot eyes just aren't dreamy enough for you.