Dear Fox

Dear Fox,

Let me tell you, there is a certain type of man. You can spot him by the fleece he wears to eat oysters on oceanic August nights. It doesn’t have to be a fleece. It can be a Patagonia pullover from three seasons ago. It will be newish looking, and he will have a clean head of hair that is the kind of thick that will turn to thin. It will unapologetically do this, seven years into the relationship. One morning he will be eating a Triscuit with smoked salmon and—whoosh.

The reason I am telling you about this man, I don’t want you to make the same mistake we did. When girls say they made a mistake with a man, the image is of nine wanton nights, blond hair thrown across bed sheets, lemony Los Angeles mornings spent in passionate disrepair. Those are the luxurious mistakes, the Marilyn mistakes. We are lucky, these days, to make Kardashian mistakes.

The mistake you make with this man is, you wait around for him. The man you wait around for is not a movie star, not an older and Tenerife-tan restaurateur. The man you wait around for wears fleeces to dinner and will never, even if you ask him to, throw you across a bed before dinner.

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