Tags: Annette Fix, modern Prince Charming, Mr. Nice Guy, The Bad Boy, The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir
I met a lot of nice guys at various times in my life. And as soon as I discovered how nice they were, it was the kiss of death. There was just no way I could respect a guy unless he backhanded me in front of his friends and said I was nothing but a dope man’s bitch. (What is it about the bad boys that makes a girl fall over with her heels behind her head?)
I think I’ve figured it out.
As a little girl, I watched all the Disney movies. I wanted to believe in princes, but I don’t think I was convinced they really existed. So, of course, when I actually found one that wasn’t animated and wearing blue tights, I was naturally suspicious.
Why is it so hard to believe that nice guys exist? And why is it even harder to accept it, appreciate it, and enjoy it?
For me, when a guy was nice, I felt it translated to “weak.” I called those guys Herberts. A Herbert is a guy who would say, “Yes, dear. No, dear. Whatever you want, dear.” and basically bend to my sizable will. I had have a strong personality, so I always felt I needed a guy who was equally as strong or stronger. If we were about to get mugged, I wanted to be with a guy who wouldn’t need me to jump in front of him and club the robber over the head with my shoe.
When I moved to Orange County, I dated a nice guy—for about a week. The deal breaker was when, in passing, I mentioned to him in a phone conversation that I was tired and still had grocery shopping to do after I got home from work. At the end of my work day, I went home and found more than $100 worth of groceries on my doorstep. All the bags held thoughtful purchases, a mix of staples and a variety of other items, fresh produce, etc. That was just weird. Like discovering someone in your apartment laundry room emptied the dryer and folded your panties. It felt a little stalker-ish.
Now that my sensibilities have evolved, I’ve realized that was probably one of the sweetest things a guy I was dating had ever done for me. But I was too stupid to realize it at the time. Luckily for me, my fairy godmother gave me another chance. She dropped a potential husband/prince into my lapdance, and on our third date, he appeared on my doorstep with a truckload of sod, two palm trees, and an avocado tree. That was the thoughtful result of me mentioning, in passing, that I loved avocados, the city had cut down my tree, and the dogs tracked in mud because there wasn’t enough grass in my backyard. He spent our date planting, watering, and slaying dermapterans. Hurray for landscaping and other acts of foreplay! I fell head over heels for Mr. Nice Guy, my modern Prince Charming.
I had a friend once who witnessed another thoughtful gesture from that same potential husband and she said: “He’s just not normal. He’s too nice. He’s the type of guy that the neighbors say to the reporters, ‘He seemed so nice, I never would have expected he had 43 dismembered bodies buried under his house.’ I’m a realist. I’m just saying that there is probably something major about him that you don’t know. For all you know, he could be a Danish spy.”
I’m happy to say: he’s not a spy, he still does thoughtful things for me every day, we’re galloping toward happily-ever-after, and that skeptical friend found her own prince. They really do exist. And there is no such thing as “too nice.”