Strongly Worded

Man Sandwich

So I end up going to Anne's party, despite the bad weather and the fear of S. (who never materializes, probably because he is busy having sex with PlusGuest). And I spend almost two hours leaning against the kitchen island sandwiched between men: Mark, Joe, and Fred.

I immediately find Mark attractive in this kind of edgy way--he is wearing a gray top that resembles scuba gear (I mean this as praise) and funky glasses.

He also reveals, within the first minutes of our meeting that: he is now an investment banker, but he used to do disaster relief work in Somalia, and prior to that he was in the Peace Corps in Kenya, and along the way he has earned a master's degree from the Fletcher School for Law and Diplomacy and an MBA from "abroad." He started at Harvard Business School but left because he "hated Harvard."

I ask him where he ended up studying, and he replies with a mouthful of European-sounding syllables that begin with "institut." I was asking about the country, not the "insititut." But apparently it is in France, and it was established by Napoleon, and (surprise!) it's among the most exclusive schools in Europe. Also apparently, the select elite who are admitted don't have to do any work once they enroll, in part because "MBA coursework, taught anywhere, is so rudimentary" and in part because the students are so rich and smart they don't need to actually answer the questions on exams. They just turn in blank paper. I keep asking him questions because I have social skills and it seemed the only way to generate conversation (clearly he was not interested in any aspect of my life). So I also learn that when he was heading up disaster relief efforts in Somalia, he had 90,000 people working under him, including a full security staff, and that it was challenging juggling job offers from USAID, Save the Children, and CARE.

Another option is to talk to Joe, Anne's brother, who is very tall and geeky, and very friendly in an earnest Midwestern way. But he does HR at Harvard and there are only so many questions one can ask about that. He inquires about general things like my work and my hometown, but again, limited conversation potential. Periodically he pauses awkwardly and I fill the void with yet another inane question, trying to establish whether this beats war stories from Mogadishu. He stands directly in front of me, making it extremely hard to escape his intense gaze and the obligation of talking with him.

Oh! And there is option #3! On my other side is Fred, from Australia, who is really, really interested in Cricket. He educates me about the rules of cricket, the different regions where it is played, the evolution of cricket uniforms, and the dearth of cricket coverage in American TV. Then I also learn about how in India there is an "all cricket, all the time" TV network that he experienced as true heaven on a recent visit. Also I learn about the barriers to women's participation in Indian cricket leagues. I could go on (and he did) but I won't.

I got my coat and headed out. Often I complain about not meeting any men at a parties. This time I'm complaining about the men I met.

Posted by Dori at 11:49 PM