The Angry Czeck

Several months ago, while engaged in some high-stakes casino gaming, I observed a young couple snaking around the blackjack tables. The girl was fantastically attired in a flattering skirt and a flashy blouse. She looked terrific; dressed to be seen. Meanwhile, her boyfriend had dressed for a picnic. Tennis shoes. Cargo shorts. T-shirt. Baseball cap. Her effort in her appearance was proportional to her boyfriend’s fashion malaise.

And this is why women pine for vampires.

As mates, we men have turned slacking into a kind of religion. We conceal the trappings of adulthood by joining fantasy football leagues and wearing sandals on any occasion. We’d rather don a dumb hat than comb our hair. Our conversations become passionate only when a sports team is the topic. In short, we are becoming more and more unattractive, like Dorian Gray’s painting.

It wasn’t too long ago when it was cool to be a man. Our idols used to be John Wayne and Gary Cooper. Now we model ourselves after man-children like Vince Vaughn. We wear our sloppiness like a badge of honor – so long as that badge looks nothing like a necktie. Our knowledge is centered less and less on yard care and carburetors, and more on exotic brands of beer and top secret barbecue recipes.

I know. I speak from experience.

I am the Sultan of the Once Per Week Shave and the Undertaker of the Untucked Shirt. My hair appears to have been combed with a lit firecracker, and my ten-year-old automobile rattles with empty soda cans and fast food bags. I am a danger to decent society with a power tool in my hand. If I can pay a real man to fix a toilet or repair the roof, I gladly do it. I take charge with my charge card.

That in mind, I understand a grown woman’s fascination with Twilight‘s Edward Cullen.

Eternally youthful, forever physically fit and ever vigilant, Edward embodies the…er…body of the perfect man. More than that, Edward is sensitive until he has to be rough. He’s moody until he’s charming. He’s just as comfortable trying on slim-fit jeans at the Banana Republic as he is wearing his tailored tuxedo to the Prom. In addition, he owns a massive CD collection which no doubt contains all of Sarah McLachlan’s hits.

Edward may battle “bad” vampires, but he’ll never have a fight with bad cholesterol. Over one hundred years of age, Edward has yet to develop a gut or a suspicious mole or an urge to join a co-ed softball league. He spends his time watching his girlfriend sleep, which (for reasons we human men can never understand) women find irresistibly alluring.

That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? Men don’t truly understand what a woman finds attractive. We admire heaving breasts, so we lazily assume that women are just as interested in massive pectorals. And while massive pectorals help, they are only elements in a package deal. We are asked to be sensitive but not feminine. We’re supposed to forsake violence unless a woman’s honor is at stake (in which case, blood becomes sexy). We’re supposed to know where the line is drawn between affection and overbearing obsession. We must patiently support and understand a woman’s faults while working super-humanly to overcome our own.

I can’t understand Edward Cullen. All I see is a moody pretty boy with dirty hair. “It’s the way he looks at her,” says Mrs. Angry by way of explanation. I try to mimic that look – that brooding stare of a lobotomy patient – and I break up in laughter. I can’t do it, not even as an academic exercise. I’m too cool.

So I put Edward into a silo I can understand. Women adore Edward because he’s always getting into fist fights over the unremarkable girl he inexplicably loves. Or because he’s a good looking kid. Or because there is never a dot of mud on his pristine Volvo. Or because he seems to be independently wealthy. I don’t know.

But I do know that the young man in the casino didn’t seem to care how much effort his girlfriend had given to her appearance. He seemed more preoccupied with donating his paycheck to the surly blackjack dealers. She stood off to his side, looking pretty and lonely, watching her slow-witted boyfriend ignore her has he wondered for too long on whether or not to hit on a 14.

It was then that I knew I was observing a secret admirer of Edward Cullen.