My Picker is Broken, Part I

Why is this what I always choose?

Today’s post is the first in a multipart series called My Picker is Broken, in which I will parade around for you like a prized show pony my laughably horrible taste in men. The first time I heard about anyone having a broken picker was on The Dr. Phil Show. A woman on the show was wailing about her terrible relationship problems when Dr. Phil looked her in the face and said to her in that tough love, no nonsense way, that we all have a relationship picker, and that hers was clearly broken. I am not sure why I was even watching Dr. Phil. Somehow, in the early 2000’s, my dad started watching The Dr. Phil Show in the afternoons after he got home from work. I tend to think that he began watching for the same reason we all rubberneck at traffic accidents when we drive by them on the highway—they disturb us, yet we can’t look away.

Sometimes Dr. Phil has interesting things to say, but too often his show smacks of Jerry Springeresque sensationalism, only without Jerry’s awesome bald bodyguard Steve. And without anyone getting hit in the back with a chair. And without anyone getting a paternity test. So, kind of like Jerry Springer only without any of the fun parts.

So, Dr. Phil told the wailing woman that her picker was broken and, though at the time I didn’t realize it, I would eventually come to adopt this sentiment as my very own. I am guilty of liking the “bad boys,” even when perfectly nice, normal, sweet, attractive men are close at hand. Often, I think the allure of a “bad boy” is in the hint of something forbidden he offers: dark good looks, a penchant for dangerous activities like riding a motorcycle or playing extreme Frisbee, and a hint of some sort of underlying charm or goodness. We always think that these men will change, if only they find the right woman. Clearly, in our fantasies of early infatuation, the right woman is always us.

In my case, however, the “bad boys” often just ended up being duds. So, if I were on The Dating Game, it would go something like this:

ANNOUNCER: Bachelor Number One is a 32 year-old Harvard-educated lawyer for a non-profit organization that fights for the humane treatment of animals. He is a world class cellist, operates his own organic grocery store, and volunteers twice weekly at the local retirement home. His best friend is George Clooney who he invites to his house often. In his spare time, Bachelor Number One enjoys lavishing the woman in his life with praise and gifts, and printing his own money, which is used as legal tender in 49 out of 50 states.

ME: Hmmmm…

ANNOUNCER: Bachelor Number Two is a 34 year-old high school drop out. He has not had gainful employment since he ran that lemonade stand when he was eight. He lives in a shed out behind his parents house, and gets around the city on a recumbent bicycle he built from trash he found outside Wal-Mart. Bachelor Number Two enjoys binge drinking, amateur night at the Pink Pony, and his once weekly bathing ritual.

ME: Oh!

ANNOUNCER: Now, Ms. Broome, who will it be? I know it’s a tough choice, but you have to make a decision. Do you choose Bachelor Number 1, or Bachelor Number Two?

STUDIO AUDIENCE: Bachelor Number One! Bachelor Number One!

ME: Chuck, I pick Bachelor Number Two!

As you can see, I do not always think logically when it comes to men. The first time I remember such illogical thinking coming into play for me was at the sixth grade dance in elementary school. There was a perfectly nice, geeky boy I could have danced with, but I had my eye on Shane, the blonde who had just returned to school from a three-day suspension. While no romantic dalliance ever occurred with Shane, (doesn’t that name just sound like the name of a delinquent?) my illogical preferences continued to plague me throughout my school days.

And, not only did I end up liking duds, I attracted them too. Also when I was in the sixth grade, there was this boy named Ronnie. He lived around the corner from me, and was in my class at school. His nose was constantly running, and he never wiped it, and he was not the sharpest tool in the shed. Perhaps, after several more years of growth and development, along with the adoption of proper hygiene rituals and some additional schooling, Ronnie would have turned into a fine young man. However, at the time, I thought he was “grody.”

Ronnie, as it so happens, also had excellent tree-climbing abilities. My mom and I would often go out walking through the neighborhood for exercise in the early evenings after eating dinner. Ronnie was somehow able to discover this ritual, and we would often see him as we walked by his house, perched in a tree in his front yard, watching as we passed. He would hang off the side of the tree like a ship’s lookout searching for land. And, as we moved past his spot, he would not speak to us or anything, but would just watch creepily and stare down at us from within the branches. So, not only was he a dud, but a budding stalker too! Thankfully, I did not somehow decide that he was an excellent choice for me to “go steady with,” but the image of his eerie countenance peering from among the leaves haunts me to this day.

I don’t know whatever happened to Shane or Ronnie. Hopefully they grew up to be productive members of society and outgrew their youthful foibles. I especially hope that Ronnie no longer watches women from up in trees, as that sounds like the beginning of an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. I wish I could tell you that after sixth grade I liked only nice, sweet upstanding young men, and that no creepy stalkers were ever interested in me again. Unfortunately, though, my bad taste and ability to attract creepy guys continued into adulthood. The bright side to all of this is that, if looked in the right light it all seems very funny now. And hopefully, if I ever decide to date again, I will choose Bachelor Number One instead of Bachelor Number Two.
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