We live in a world of endless demand and finite supply. It’s harsh to say out loud, but them’s the breaks, kid. We can sweeten the story by saying that “love is what counts,” but we often love the people that can fulfill the gaps in our demand for resources. How you fulfill your needs (read: demands) largely depends on what you can offer (read: supply). For instance, I get laid because I’m am a) thin and b) cis-female, which means that I can present myself in a way that fits into the very narrow scope of what is deemed “sexually attractive.” I could say that it’s because I’m smart or funny or kind, but, really, none of those things actually move the needle in the marketplace. On the other side of this heteronormative coin, men get laid if they a) have money or b) are tall, money and physical size being good avatars for “social power.” Being a tall woman has a negative impact on market value; most men will not consider a woman whose perceived social power outranks theirs.
Part of me is bitterly angry about this (see: the tone of the previous paragraph), but part of me, the science-y part recognizes that this is just how it is, even for the most enlightened of us, such as myself. For instance, I, too, feel the push of the finite-supply marketplace when I (an unusually tall woman) see a tall guy walking around with a diminutive female. What a waste of height differential! It’s an affront to economics that that much male value should be sequestered with a female whose relative marketplace price is *not* hindered by being taller than most men. I get especially twitchy about this when I see a tall man’s bicycle locked up with a small woman’s. You see, I find bicycles to be both delightful and erotic and seeing that sexual-marketplace imbalance played out in my favorite sporting arena just irritates the hell out of me.
I picked up my bicycle (Cannondale Synapse, black with high-vis green accents...sweet) from its Spring tuneup last month and loitered in the shop for a few minutes while the mechanic retrieved it. As usual, I took my time ogling all the nifty and toothsome cycles that were awaiting their owners, all neatly tagged on the handlebars with a service order and the owner’s contact info. One bike in particular caught my attention. It was a tall, at least 60cm, Bianchi Pista fixie. Celeste green handlebar tape. Vintage steel. Oh, yes, Oh, yes.
I glanced over my shoulder. The shop was empty. With a forced air of nonchalance, I ambled over, struck a casual pose next to the lovely thing, and peeked down at the service tag. “Andrew Huskover, 720-555-8195, Full tune w/ bearings.” The guy knew how to order up a service-- greasing the bearings are a touch of class on a town commuter. I discreetly slid my phone out of my pockets and, with one more quick glance around, snapped a photo of the tag. You know, like you do.
That night, with a Purple Monkey Sour in its koozy, I idly flipped through the internet. It was packed with loads of worthless ephemera, and very little of actual value or interest. I took a sip and thought about that Pista. Mark Zuckerberg has solved the problem of anonymity and privacy in the world. I called up his kingdom with a few keystrokes and typed in “Andrew Huskover Denver.” Within seconds, his face, current location, favorite band, extended family, workplace, preferred taco stand, and everything else I could possibly ferret out in a 2-hour conversation appeared on my screen. He was “currently active.” Well, then.
The only problems remaining were 1) does this guy have a woman (no relationship status was listed, dammit, 2) does this guy *like* women (it’s the default, but far from universal), 3) how does one make this approach without being an ubercreep who stole your personal information? Me and the Monkey thought about that for a few more minutes. Finally, I stretched my fingers out, clicked on the “Message” button, and began to type.
©2020 by Jessie Hanson. All rights reserved.