Why Do the Men I'm Supposed to Want Give Me the Ick?

After dating a series of attachment disorders, I’m trying hard to tune my attraction to uncomplicated men. Unfortunately, as many women find out, evolved, therapist-certified, emotionally available men aren’t all that date-able.

But why?

Am I the problem? Or them?

I’m having a nice conversation with a cute hockey-playing dad, and we’ve agreed to meet — but when I explain I’ve been feeling low over the anniversary of my dad’s death by way of excusing a delay, he eagerly jumps in to offer a listening ear and support.

My internal response? Ewwww.

It’s a strange reaction when I’m supposed to be excited about a supportive listener.

That ‘ew’ is a me problem, right?

We meet for coffee on an unseasonably warm day, and chat about hobbies, raising autistic kids and divorce — which he says all the right things about — before veering into our grief over losing parents. He was orphaned by 17.

He’s not dramatic about it, but the word ‘orphaned’ doesn’t sit right.

Then he tells me he hasn’t been on a date in six months, and I fight an urge to recoil. He’s being vulnerable, which I’m supposed to like, and I know the dating apps aren’t kind to men. But his hopefulness feels like pressure.

Still, our conversation flows, he has interests and friends, and he’s thoughtful. I agree to meet for another date.

And he believes wholeheartedly in therapy. Score, right?

Except maybe that position is a little slick: “Everyone should go to therapy whether or not they’re suffering” is the party line of Emotionally Evolved Men now. It’s the least controversial stance a progressive man could take around women.

And this one clearly spends a lot of time with women.

Maybe too much time.

We get together again, with higher stakes: It’s nighttime and Date 2 is the kissing date. Do or die. I’m praying attraction kicks in.

He recounts running into an old friend of his father, who tells him he’s doing a great job as a dad, unlike his brother. He’s trying to couch the story but it’s clear he’s thrilled to have come out ahead.

“It’s just how I am, I don’t know any other way to be,” he says as if he’s being modest.

I hate everyone in this story.

Him, for the little thrill of validation he’s gotten from the compliment.

His father’s friend, who probably thinks Hockey Dad does such a good job babysitting his own kids.

And the brother, who clearly is kind of a shitty parent.

The ick hits me so hard I wonder how I’ll ever be able to date men again.

I’ve learned — OK, I’m learning — my lesson about broody, complicated men, and obviously I don’t mess with conservatives, so-called moderates and apolitical bimbos.

And now, apparently, I can’t date nice liberal men who are proud to be good dads.

I’m not especially nice when I feel this way. Hockey Dad tells me his kids enjoy his house more than their mom’s — where she lives in with her affair-partner-turned-husband — because she’s a lot stricter about cleanliness, bedtime and healthy eating. I silently formulate theories about why she cheated.

“I tell them, look, your mother has different rules but that doesn’t mean she’s a bad person. She’s doing what she thinks is best,” he says, looking for kudos for not shit-talking his children’s mother.

It strikes me he’s already had plenty of praise from the women he surrounds himself with. He lives in a tight-knit neighborhood and the women have taken his side: After all, the wife cheated, and look how nice he is.

I reply, “Well, the parent who doesn’t hold the standards always wins that fight. Of course the kids want to spend more time with the parent who doesn’t make them eat vegetables.”

I try to reign in the passive aggression but then he says the thing again.

This time, he’s telling me how he didn’t mind getting up in the middle of the night for newborn feedings even though it made him tired at work and his coworkers asked why he was helping. The story doesn’t annoy me until he tells me the kids were twins and his wife also got up in the middle of the night to feed the other baby. His participation wasn’t really voluntary.

“That’s just how I am, I don’t know any other way to be,” he says with a practiced shrug and cutesy smile that makes my skin crawl.

He’s waiting for a pat on the head but all I have to offer is cringe. An evil thought I’ve been trying to ward off penetrates my brain: Nice Guy Who Couldn’t Hold His Wife’s Sexual Interest.

It’s a new category and I’m now retroactively sorting past dates into it.

And he is a nice guy. He’s been letting a friend crash at his place for months. He clearly enjoys his children.

But he lives for women’s approval. I speculate about the time after he lost his mother and father in the space of a few years, picturing sympathetic women fussing over him. Maybe he subconsciously built his life around keeping the supply turned on.

(You’d think empathy would overcome my ick, but you’d be wrong. This ick is so strong it has its own gravity).

The Nice Guy Who Couldn’t Hold His Wife’s Sexual Interest thing makes me wonder what the hell I actually want: not complicated, not simple, not mean, not nice.

Then a post on Threads that helps me name it:

Attraction is rare for me, and the men who get under my skin aren’t the ones with no controversial opinions or who are too eager to connect.

When I was embroiled in a thing that started to feel like a situationship, my best friend told me, “You deserve something easier. Wait for it.” I extricated myself but the promise of ‘easier’ felt — and still feels — empty.

I just couldn’t explain why.

This post snapped my resistance into focus: I haven’t gravitated to complicated men because I’m impatient or replaying unwell attachment dynamics. I don’t simply need an easy companion who’ll never make me feel insecure.

I need depth. The exquisite attunement of a person whose inner life eclipses their outer one.

Maybe for me — and all the self-aware women I know white-knuckling it through the dating hellride — depth simply doesn’t come easy or clean.

What I’m looking for is rare, but worth waiting for.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.