I believe in objectifying women. And I'll defend that. Because the object they are for me is encyclopedic, not sexual. Some want to marry rich, others want a trophy spouse, but I just want to date smart. I want a woman into whose ear I can whisper during an intimate moment, “Hey, how do you find an object’s center of mass again?” Some stalk potential dates on Insta, Twitter, LinkedIn. Me? I just want to see their graduate student profile on a .edu domain.
Some time back, at a networking event, I saw a woman standing by herself, emanating what I might describe as “strong awkward vibes.” I have to say I find nervous energy truly sexy because that means there’s at least a chance they’re really smart. I worked up the courage to go talk to her. She said, modestly, that she studies physics. I can work with that! I thought. I love talking physics, despite my lack of any in-depth knowledge in the field.
I asked an existential question I had been pondering. What would it mean at the atomic level for free will to exist? She took my question seriously, and then, gave me the most breathtaking, nuanced answer I had ever heard. She was clearly thinking so many levels deeper than I ever could. She dived way into the subatomic, zoomed past the quantum, and I got butterflies. It took me no more than eight seconds of her talking for me to think, Okay, this is very certainly the smartest person I have ever encountered. There was no question about it. And I went to some Ivy League school and generally pride myself on the intellect of the company I keep. But never had I met someone of this caliber before. It was love at first listen.
I fumbled for words as I struggled to keep our conversation afloat. I stopped being able to follow what she was saying, but that is sort of the point. I want to be lost in the logic. Real talk, I want to inhale second-hand grad school.
About a year after this encounter, I was browsing social media, as my feeble mind does, and I came across an article extolling, in superlative terms, the accomplishments of a female physicist who had been making waves with her recently published papers. Aroused, I clicked. And there, in the article’s photograph of the celebrated physicist was the woman I had met at that event. The article raved about her, called her research groundbreaking, and cited legends of science who gushed about her too. She was the real deal! I fucking knew it! Now she was being recognized internationally for her unique brilliance.
I was so happy for her. Yet, so wistful. After all, at the end of our five-minute chat, I had gotten her business card and emailed her a few times in the weeks ahead to see if she would want to meet me. She never replied, so I assumed at best she wasn’t interested. And why should she be? Intellectually, she’s a perfect ten—a seventeen if you deal in hyperbole—and I’m at best a five. I shouldn’t stray so far out of my league. I really shouldn’t.
Where was I going with this argument? What was my point in recounting this? I don’t remember. I guess it is to reiterate that I’m all in on objectifying women on their knowledge and brainpower. And while I am a little conflicted as to whether or not this is offensive, I sure as hell think it’s better than the more mainstream alternative.