Arm-Muscle Man

So called because my roommate could never remember his name and, well, his arm muscles were quite nice.

Arm-muscle man was my Jewish grandmother's* dream, Jewish enough to count, not enough to matter. Non-offensive last name. From my hometown (no tussling over where the wedding would be). Former pro tennis player. Ivy leaguer. Rhodes scholar. And fed starving children in his spare time. No, really. Oh, and did I mention he had really nice arm muscles?

Only one teensy tiny problem. He had also managed to acquire a severe case of arrogant arsehole syndrome (yes, that is the technical psychological term). For those unfamiliar with this all-too-common affliction, symptoms of AAS may include: perplexedly asking why a woman doesn't want to sleep with you on the first date, as if this has never happened to you before; relentlessly pressuring said woman, while doling out equally relentless assurances that all you want is to make her happy; confessing that the symposium you just attended was dreadfully boring because, after all, you knew far more than the speaker (or, for that matter, anyone else there); speaking incessantly of former girlfriends, including one who "just happened to be a model"; bringing a resume to the first date and keeping it handy for any subsequent meetings (n.b. arm-muscle man did not, in fact, do this -- he had his memorized for more fluid delivery); and a host of other behaviors that indicate absolutely no awareness that astronomers years ago discovered that the earth revolves around the sun.

Now, the danger of those with AAS is that they are often quite charismatic, convincing hapless young women that a second date is a good idea when it is clear that one was plenty, thank you.

Recommended course of treatment: Do not call. Do not write. Do not pass go. Do NOT sleep over.

*Not to be confused with my Southern Baptist grandmother (both lovely in their own way, but one makes kreplach and one makes toilet paper cozies). A subject for a later post ...