I’ve Finally Accepted I Have A Type – Someone Impossible To Be With

It’s no secret we’re an opinionated generation, quick to vocalise our feelings. When it comes to romance, it’s become common to refine our tastes down to ‘our type’: a formula for our perfect partner that we can’t help but return to over and over again. You need look only to Love Island, where new contestants can barely make it through the villa doors before being accosted by islanders desperate to know if they’re here to ‘steal their mans’, to see the obsession with ‘my type on paper’.

In fact, for some of this year’s islanders, their type seems to be the driving force behind everything they do – even leading them into situations that would probably be better left untouched. Jake, for example, can’t seem to help continuously reminding Liberty that blondes (any) are his type, including those that are already in (or may at some point enter) the villa. It’s hardly reassuring, the thought that your boyfriend’s head could turn for pretty much any other female based purely on the colour of her hair. It also says a lot about the boy in question, that a single physical attribute is the only requirement he looks for in a partner. Talk about low standards.

‘What’s your type then?’

When asked this most sought-after FAQ, ‘Tall, dark and handsome,’ is the customary response. To me, this is fascinating. I’m baffled by anyone that can narrow down their preference to three short words, when I appear to require a notepad, a fluffy pen and access to a thesaurus. What is my type?

Short, tall, good looking, less good looking, creative, conventional, sweet boy, bad boy…I’ve been through them all. I don’t require boxes to be ticked, I just draw more boxes. The more nuanced and complex their personality, the better.

Not having a certified physical ‘type’ as such makes dating apps tricky. Without those boxes to be ticked, it’s difficult to swipe right for anyone – or instead, you might swipe right for everyone. It could go either way. Other people prefer you to have a type, as it helps them work you out sooner. But there does come a point where previous love interests or tastes need to be let go of, and when you’re between my legs is not the time to ask me who I normally go for. Surely at this point, words on a paper are irrelevant.

The diversity of my previous partners’ appearances has always made me certain I didn’t fall into this trap of having a ‘type’, of dating different versions of the same person repeatedly. But then, mid existential crisis last week, I had an epiphany. I did have a type. There was something, a certain characteristic, that linked all my previous partners like an unseen genetic default. A secret hereditary disease that failed to appear at first glance. Be it emotionally, spiritually, socially or geographically, I had managed to ensure that every person was quite possibly the most unsuitable person I could have gone for at that specific time.

I’ve written before about opposites attracting, but it was the first time I had been confronted with the consequences of such appeal. Being attracted to people who are irrevocably and fundamentally different from you is exciting, but to actually be with those people is hard. It’s harder than I ever fully appreciated when I was younger, the mixing of two people from different cultural, religious or socio-economic backgrounds; it requires a lot of compromise and adapting and change to what you may have envisioned your life to be like. Was this why I made relationships so complicated, by constantly going after people who were just too different? Had I discovered my coping mechanism for avoiding actual commitment, or was it that those differences are what really turns me on?

I’d like to say it was the latter. When faced with someone who was seemingly ‘perfect’ for me, who was like looking in a mirror in terms of upbringing, temperament and personality, and who was –here’s in the real kicker – actually available, I discovered I just really wasn’t that bothered. I like the challenge, the chase and the satisfaction of the catch. Maybe that’s something one day I’ll grow out of, but until then, I need to acknowledge it’s the loose cannons that make me tick. My Mum might sigh at the realisation she’ll be waiting a while longer for those grandchildren, but at least I’ll never be short of a dinner party anecdote.

by Lizzie Perman (Staff Love & Relationships Writer)

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