The thought of being in a relationship with a male model makes me want to vomit all over their absurd collection of hair products and expensive facial lotions. Modelling requires an IQ similar to that of a five-year-old, and the guys I’ve come across at castings and jobs have all been Donnie Dumbbells. Now, I’m not saying ALL male models are idiots, but every single one I’ve worked with definitely doesn't know who F. Scott Fitzgerald or George Carlin are, and that sucks.
I will never, ever date a male model and here are some reasons why.
1) I don't know if you picked up on this from the intro, but they’re not intelligent. Most of them spend their extracurricular time at the gym, getting spray-tanned or whitening their teeth. I never see them reading books or having conversations that go intellectually deeper than what their favourite nightclub in the Meat Packing District is. If they have a second job to supplement their income, it’s almost always bartending, which means I'm forced to hear the word “mixologist” on an almost daily basis – something no human should ever have to endure.
That said, they do seem really happy all the time. I think I’m envious of idiots; they don’t have too much going on in their brains. Must be nice.
2) They spend lots of money on their own clothes, which leaves very little money to buy me a new Rebecca Minkoff purse. I like my boyfriend to have a simple wardrobe. Nice fitting jeans, cute t-shirts, button-ups and a leather jacket. I’m pretty lenient on shoes, just as long as they're not old man gym trainers. Unless you're Larry David or legitimately need to wear them for fear of your spine crumbling in on itself, nothing says "I've completely given up on life" more than a pair of Skechers orthopaedic walking shoes.
3) They’re young. Men under the age of 30 usually don’t know how to impress ladies, so that coupled with the fact that male models are usually more self-involved than Kanye and used to young girls fawning over them doesn't bode particularly well. Perhaps the best example to encapsulate what I'm getting at here is when I was working with a 19-year-old guy on a shoot where we had to look like we were in love and having fun. You'd have thought that, being a model, he would have grasped the basic concept of pretending to do something, but dummy would just gaze into the camera like he was shooting a stock photo for "sociopath pretending to do love".
4) They don’t have a sense of humour. All male models have to do to pick up a girl is look passionately at her across the bar and her vagina will melt instantly. They don’t need to be witty or smart, so what's the point in using their brains at all? On a scale from one to Ryan Gosling, the guys I've dated have averaged slightly higher than Steve Buscemi, meaning these opinions are coming from someone who reliably dates men based on personality over looks, because it doesn't matter how sculpted his cheekbones are if we can't laugh at each other for doing cute, dumb, funny stuff. Did you throw up yet? Okay, I'll continue.
5) They’re too skinny. I can’t be seen with a guy who is thinner than me – are you fucking nuts? I’m borderline anorexic and if I have some attractive pretty-boy at my side I won’t look as hot as I do next to an ugly guy. That’s been my logic for years and it’s worked out great so far (it hasn't, but my new dosage of antidepressants is telling me it has). I like dating guys where, if someone saw us out together, they'd think, 'What the fuck is that guy doing with that hot girl?'
It means your guy is less likely to cheat on you because he’s dating a girl out of his league. Never mind that my last boyfriend cheated on me with a younger girl even though he was 50. What a dick, right? I’m a fucking model, how could anyone cheat on me?? Maybe it was my small boobs or the fact that I lost my sex drive from birth control pills and Zoloft. Whatever, he doesn’t deserve me – I’m a PRIZE! Can’t you tell?
Based on this list I will probably be alone for the rest of my life and living in a trailer with 17 cats and a pet iguana until the day I die – the only excitement in my life coming in sporadic, depressing bursts whenever carrots are on sale at the market. I’m doomed.
Follow Melissa on Twitter: @MelissaStetten
Previously: Naked, Cold and Upset in Central Park