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In fact, the typical flirter-with-Emily looks so much unlike this guy, that I assumed my train station beau wasn’t hitting on me at all and must be truly confused by the rail map. Guys “like that” don’t go for girls “like me.” I don’t mean smart girls, or feminist girls, or writerly types who rant on the Internet. Trim guys with defined abs, designer stubble, and movie star cheekbones want girls with flat stomachs and twiggy thighs. ***** Remember that Girls episode when Hannah enjoyed a two-day affair with a man played by Patrick Wilson and the Internet exploded with outrage at the impossibility of such an attraction?How could someone like him—all American dreamboat—be attracted, on any level, to her soft, pale, wide-hipped, small-breasted body? When Wilson’s real wife got wind of the hysteria, she jumped in with a well-timed tweet: “funny, his wife is a size 10, muffin top & all, & he does her just fine.” A few years ago I caught myself applying the very flawed Patrick Wilson logic to a family of strangers at a water park.I noticed them while I waited for a leisurely float down the lazy river.

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The mom, laughing and squeegeeing wet hair onto the hands of her delighted kids, was thick around the middle and sporting an unflattering one-piece. She looked 40-something too, and yet, to my judgmentally trained eye, they didn’t seem to match.

I started running through scenarios about their union, spinning stories to myself to justify their togetherness.

It never crossed my mind that maybe he just liked her that way.

So a few months ago, at rush hour in a downtown train station, this handsome guy starts chatting me up.

He was cologne-model good looking, with weirdly perfect sandpaper stubble on a square jaw and a fitted suit partially hidden by a classy overcoat.

Not a parka, or peacoat, or a ragged but endearing arrangement of flannel and wool, an actual overcoat.I’ve never in my life been hit on by a man in an overcoat.As a matter of fact, I’ve never been hit on by a man in a suit, or a man wearing shined shoes, or a man with a briefcase.Men who flirt with me don’t carefully part their hair or monitor the millimeters of their beards.They aren’t “chiseled.” Men who hit on me are usually creatively under-employed, with duct-taped boots, healthy and unchecked scruff, and several mostly-useless graduate degrees.They look all kinds of ways, from lumberjack to semi-starving artist, but they definitely don’t look like this guy at the train station. I mean girls with jean sizes in the double digits, with thighs that rub together, who weigh enough that Plan B isn’t designed for them.

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