As a typical single, romantically minded, literature loving girl, I am well aware of the standards among my kind. I find, however, I’m not the most apt to adhere to standards.
My all time favorite Austen is Persuasion, not Pride & Prejudice. I’d much prefer Mr. Knightley to be my hero over Mr. Darcy. Emily of New Moon is a more kindred spirit to me than Anne with an “e.” (Though I’d fall head over heels for a real life Gilbert Blythe any day of the week.) I think guys named Rick have a built in tendency toward skeeziness so I’ve never trusted Humphrey Bogart’s character in “Casablanca.” Canadians have a better chance of falling into my own personal “intriguing” or “sexy” categories than any man from continental Europe. I appreciate boldness, not flirtation. And long walks on the beach are always better solo than with another person.
I was thinking over the weekend about how set I am in my preferences. My “types,” if you will, whether it be in regard to books, movies, travels, hobbies or men, are well defined. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? That is, does it make me capable of focusing on what is most likely a well-suited fit for me without wasting my time? Or does it increase the chances that I will overlook unexpected possibilities for joy/fun/satisfaction?
Of course the thought that my preferences could be potentially damaging to my life brought me around to the additonal thought that I may very well be outside of other people’s set preferences, too. Ouch.