Some Men Are Just Better

There is a universal truth that we all try to avoid when the sun shines beautifully on the Tagus River: no matter how hard we try, there will always be someone making a better living than we are. For years, I convinced myself that my slightly chaotic personality, my unpredictable schedule, and my cynicism were my greatest charm. They were my trademark. Until Lourenço came along.

Lourenço was the new boyfriend of a former fling of mine. And, to my profound and paralyzing horror, he wasn't just a physical "upgrade"; he was the personification of irritating perfection. I discovered him not by chance, but through Instagram, where he appeared photographed for an online weekend magazine, smiling immaculately, holding a glass of champagne.

While I was in my damp apartment eating yesterday's leftovers and questioning my life choices, Lourenço was saving the world with an elegance that made me want to throw my phone out the window. Worse: Lourenço wears white. Wear white jeans and white linen shirts in Lisbon... a city where you only need to sit on a terrace or glance at a custard tart to be immediately covered in stains and dust. But the dirt, apparently, is afraid to touch Lourenço.

And I couldn't help but wonder: is our obsession with trying to achieve a perfection that clearly doesn't belong to us precisely what prevents us from being genuinely happy with our own messiness?

I plunged into a spiral of silent, one-sided competition. I decided I would reinvent myself, no matter the cost. I spent half my monthly budget on an expensive pair of athletic shoes, the kind that promise to correct posture and emotional life at the same time. I signed up for one of those grueling morning running clubs along the Ribeira das Naus, where Lisbon's elite of successful adults go to sweat out detox juices and network before eight in the morning. I wanted to prove to myself, and to the ghost of my ex, that I could perfectly well be "that" kind of man. 

My great moment of redemption came at a Sunday brunch where I knew they would be. I put on my best white shirt, took a deep breath, and rehearsed my most serene and sporty persona. But tragedy has a perverse sense of humor. As soon as I spotted Lourenço, with his hair that always has that meticulously tousled, wind-blown look, like something out of a fashion campaign, I tried to wave casually while holding a dark gallon jug. One stumble on a treacherous step of the Portuguese pavement was enough. My immaculate white shirt instantly transformed into a brown abstract expressionist canvas.

Lourenço approached. He didn't laugh, he didn't judge me, and with such genuine kindness that it completely disarmed me, he offered me a cloth handkerchief to clean myself. And for ultimate humiliation? The next day, I received a message on my iMessage (which he discovered God knows how) with perfect spelling. It was him. A damn handwritten message, thanking me for the company and saying how "wonderful" it had been to cross paths with me.

Game Over. I had to accept the fact that, in life, some men are just better. No amount of sneakers, running clubs, or networking will change that. I will never be the man with perfect hair, who can wear white without getting it dirty. And who chairs important committees. And who writes thank-you notes. And I can't feel bad about it.