I am a huge soccer/football/futbol fan. Huge. Most of all I love a good set piece: flick to Midfielder, cross to Striker, GOAL! When the game's played well, it truly is the Beautiful Game. It doesn't hurt that the players are fit, gorgeous, and at their peak- they are (literally) the icing on the cake. I mean LOOK at them! Note, I won't cheer for Italy but I will cheer for this pic.
However there's a downside to this sport and that is the dives. Oh, they could give the Screen Actors' Guild a run for the their money when it comes to acting an injury or foul play. Most times the player goes down from a mere brushing of grass blades against his ankle but you'd think it was shrapnel for the amount of writhing and carrying on.
The World Cup has occupied most of my time these days and after fantasising about more than one player on the field I've come to notice a trend in these men- the Metrosexual. I say that term as though it's a new concept but it's not. These guys have been around for years: peacocks, dandies, guys who'd rather paint caves than hunt mammoth... but what does it mean to DATE one?
I always thought that going out with a metrosexual would be fine. Sure, he would spend more time on his hair than me, he might secretly get his eyebrows waxed and his chest hair lasered. He would probably spend an inordinate amount of time trimming his facial hair just so, but he'd still be masculine and really, wasn't that beard trimming done for the sake of my delicate skin??
Unfortunately not, as I came to see when going on a date with DC Bachelor 3. DCB3 is a very handsome man- tall, dark, successful, gentlemanly. He compliments, opens doors, is very interesting and interested in what I have to say. He also asks me what skin products I use, wants to trade Clinique bonus gifts, and asked me upfront what I was wearing (I suspect to coordinate outfits). The plus side is that he couldn't wait to see my hair, had been obsessing over it (his words) and wanted to see it in all lights. I love love loved that.
I thought this was all going quite well and then he told me what he was dying to do after dinner- get a mani-pedi. I barked out a laugh, unable to control myself. I thought he was kidding, after all. But no, he was dead serious and as he had beach time coming up he wanted manicured toes and nails buffed to perfection. As this was beyond bizarre I was all in- you can't make this stuff up.
So we sat in the massage chairs getting pampered, watching World Cup, and me trying not to squeal throughout my pedicure from the sadistically ticklish ministrations of the pumice stone (Fail). Afterwards we were walking in our flip flops and I was thinking how good of a date this was: I had a nice dinner, good company, a rare mani-pedi... and then he somewhat leaned in. I could have gone for it but something stopped me. It felt like I was having a slumber party with my best girlfriend and then all of the sudden she tries to kiss me. "Wh---?," I'm thinking.