It was a Wednesday evening, and our radio broadcast had just finished. I was walking out of the studios and through Starbucks, contemplating whether I should treat myself to an Earl Grey latte (never coffee, because the taste of it makes me feel like my organs are collapsing, and I would rather lick the sidewalk in Chinatown than drink a whole cup).
As I looked up, I saw one of the most handsome faces I had ever seen. (I know people who know me will think, "typical Iwani, yeah yeah yeah..." but I'm being very serious this time, excuse you.) It was one of those moments in which the entire world slows down and in that second, nothing else was visible except his perfect, perfect self. His jawline was so strong it could break a bank vault, his eyes so warm they could melt a glacier (but they wouldn't do that because they definitely care about polar bears and sea levels rising). His skin was so flawless, like a caramel-coloured statue, and his every muscle so effortlessly toned and sculpted. In short, I was hella smitten.
He stared back at me with a look of surprise and recognition, as we had seen each other before from a distance, when I was onstage hosting an event and didn't have the time to lust over boys because I was supposed to be making money (yeah, feminism!).
I smiled ever so slightly, a coy smile that didn't give to much away, and by too much, I'm referring to the fact that I wanted to walk over and put a ring on it effective immediately. For those of you who think this is shallow to want to marry a man based on his looks, I will have you know that:
1. He was studying at the time, something very smart and important by the looks of it
2. He is on exchange at the Number One school in Asia (*blows a trumpet loudly*), and,
3. He had lots of friends around him.
So my excellent skills of deduction told me that at least he must be intelligent and personable. It's not all just about objectification, please, I'm a nice guy!
Anyway, as I broke eye contact and gracefully breezed past him (I hope), I chanced a glance back to see his perfection one more time, lest I never see him again. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the moment that I knew that any love between me and Caramel-Adonis was to be explicitly forbidden, because I saw the most offensive, most deplorable, most utterly and absolutely and indubitably unforgivable crime on this man's body.
(I KNOW. I'll give you a moment to recover.)
For those of you fortunate to have never seen the offensive articles, 'jorts' are jean shorts, and the name is onomatopoeic because seeing them will make any sensible person want to hurl. Jorts are an inexplicable trend that defies all fashion- and common-sense (if you find regular jeans too hot, and the material too heavy, then what on earth do you hope to remedy by cutting the least stuffy bits off?) For some reason, men (especially Europeans and Mid-Western Americans) love to don jorts with wild abandon, even more so in Singapore where many expats believe that the rules of etiquette no longer apply and thus it must be entirely acceptable to wear board shorts in a restaurant, to wear flip flops in a mall, and to wear crocs anywhere at all.
I long ago decided that I simply cannot date a man who wears jorts because he is obviously lacking in judgement and common sense. The same goes for men who ride scooters, and I'm not talking about those sexy vespas, I'm talking about the original scooter. Why, you ask? It's because they are so impatient in their desire to get from point A to point B that they will sacrifice their dignity to hop on a children's toy. I still haven't decided which is worse between electric and manual, because with a manual you look far more ridiculous heaving yourself along like a toddler but at least you're not being a lazy and smug bugger simply standing on an electric one.
I was raised in a good home, by parents who told me it was never acceptable to ride children's toys. Nor is it considered acceptable to fraternise with people who do, under any circumstance. Moreover, I feel that it is my responsibility, nay, my duty to notify women of these dangerous and deplorable men. My personal no-go list includes but is not limited to:
Men who wear fedoras
Men who talk back to their mothers
Men who ride Segways
Men who keep the plastic cover on their phone or laptop after unboxing it
Men intimidated or threatened by my ambition
Men who slut-shame
Men who don't understand the importance of dessert
Men who could theoretically fit into my skinny jeans (this one's a personal thing, really makes me uncomfortable for some reason)
Men who are unpleasant to the people serving them
Men with long nails (again, another personal thing. I just can't, why are you trying to upstage me?)
Men who wear Jorts
and lastly, Men who ride scooters.
If you happen to come across any of these men, run.
You've been warned.
Pepper & Söl
*BUT if he's willing to throw away his jorts for you, forgive him the poor man for he probably knew not what he did. Keep him.