Slightly tall, a bit dark, and almost handsome. That was my first visual assessment of the guy sitting across from me in one of my grad school classes. I had never seen this one before. Was he new? A transfer student?

I listened intently as he softly shared his empathetic view on the sad downfall of humanity in struggling third world countries. I do not recall what he said exactly, but I will never forget how he said it because it became my baseline for analyzing the niceness of any man from that day forward. There was a surreal kindness in his tone, a true sense of purpose and understanding and warmth and compassion. He talked like my girlfriend Jeannie would about a lost puppy or my friend Amanda when she explained the rain forest was in dire need of our help. This guy seemed too sweet to be straight, so of course I had to investigate.

I nudged my friend Devan, who was emphatically pressing her red ballpoint pen into the hard-back cover of her expensive textbook as she drew hearts around her boyfriend’s name. She had a glazed look in her eyes. I could tell she wasn’t listening to a word being said in class. I nudged her harder and then nodded toward the sweet-voiced-guy.

“That’s the guy from that reality show,” she said, not in a whisper but with annoyance, as if I should have known and also as if I distracted her from drawing the thousandth heart she was strategically imprinting around Zak’s name.

“Shh!” I guess a few people in class were actually trying to pay attention. I ignored their pleas for silence.

“Is he gay?”

“No.”

He was still speaking softly, imploring us all to become more involved in Angelina’s efforts in Zimbabwe.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Good.”

Devan rolled her eyes.

I made eye contact with him and was about to hit him with my best seductive, I-might-be-interested-in-you glance when I realized I wasn’t dealing with just a regular guy. This one had a gentle spirit, and he was radiating zero game. I had no idea how to handle him. I started to get flustered and frustrated. I was mentally stumped. I went through the rolodex in my head of guys I knew who acted like this and what had worked on them in the past. Think, Christy, think. No, not him. But, wait, what about…no, not him. Oh my God. I realized I was in new territory. I had no other choice but to wing it.

Class was over. I walked diagonally in his direction, planning on nonchalantly bumping into him with an “Oops, excuse me.” I looked slyly out of the corner of my eye, expecting him to be in the distance of my peripheral vision. Oh my. He was less than a foot away from me, in my dance space.

“Hey. I saw you looking at me during class,” he softly said with an even softer smile.

I stood frozen. Who does that? I thought. Who approaches a woman and comes right out and says that? Who says that?!

“Uh, yeah, I thought I knew you from somewhere.” Oh God, Christy! Was that all you could come up with. I was getting angry with myself. I was so embarrassed by my lack of couth and lack of skills. Where oh where had my game gone?!

Introductions. Smiles. More smiles. Oh wow. This guy really had no game at all.

“Would you like to get a coffee?” he asked innocently and of course…softly and with a smile.

What do I do? What do I do? Of course I wanted to get a coffee with him. Of course I wanted to respond with a cute and innocent, “Sure, I’d love to,” but every guy from my past had shown me that responding with “Sure, I’d love to,” puts him in charge, puts me at a disadvantage, makes me look desperate and available and it goes against every rule from every rule book that exists. But this was not every other guy from my past. I interrupted myself with a frightening thought. Oh my God. What if this is The One? What if all the years of denying that love at first sight exists were wasted years of negativity. Screw it.

“Sure, I’d love to.”

As we walked to his car (the one I later found out he had won on the reality television show I had already forgotten Devan told me about less than thirty minutes earlier) people were looking at us. They were whispering. Staring. Of course I assumed it was about me. Did I have marinara sauce on my white blouse from the second date lunch I had had earlier with Mr. Mafioso (another lovely spectacle of a man to be covered in this column at a later date)? Or perhaps the back of my skirt was tucked into my tights? Or maybe, God forbid, I grew a new pimple since I last looked in the mirror and it was radiating a glow from my forehead? Stares. Whispers. We walked past a reflective window, and I did a quick once-over of myself. Good choice for an outfit, Christy. I saw that I still looked the same. Stares. Whispers. What was wrong with these people?

I was so wrapped up with obsessive thoughts that people were staring at me. They had to be whispering about me. Me, me, me. It dawned on me, me, me. Maybe they simply thought we, we, we were a great looking couple, (did I just use the term, “couple?”) or perhaps they…

My self-centered thoughts were interrupted by a pack of giggling teenage girls.

“Like, oh my God, like, are you like, that guy from like, television?” the cutest of the bunch asked, practically falling on top of my love-at-first-sight-Mr.-nice-guy.

Mr.-nice-reality-TV-future-husband-man softly smiled and said, “Yes,” softly, of course, lightly grasped my hand, and led me in to the coffee bar, smiling.

“Sorry about that.”

“No, problem,” I respond with a shake of my hand, as if I hadn’t even noticed the stares and whispers and attack of giddy teenage girls. I was still recovering from the staring and whispering, which was so apparently…not. about. me.

The coffee date went smoothly, which surprised me, because it was interrupted several, no, many times by more teeny-boppers, as well as adults, who “just adooored” soft-reality-guy from his show.

I didn’t get it. Not a fan, at all, of reality television, I didn’t know the secrets of my soft-future-husband’s past non-private life. I didn’t get the innuendos made by strangers and not-so-inside jokes about lines he made famous from the show. I felt left out. Poor me. I ended the “date” with my future spouse so I could get home quickly and research what all the fuss was about. I also wanted to make sure my intuition was on the money. This guy could not possibly be as down to earth as he portrayed. I was determined to find out more.

Smiles. Exchanged numbers. Smiles. No kiss. Just a hug. A hug, and of course, more smiles.

My gut was off! The Internet showed my darling future husband in scene after scene of true, authentic niceness! Blogs stated he was a dream guy with a heart of gold. Nothing bad. No tabloid rumors. No hookups with Britney after rehab stories. Nothing bad. Nothing at all.

The time spent together, prior to our never-mentioned impending marriage, was filled with trips to the zoo, Dave and Busters, and ice cream parlors. And this is exactly what caused the deal-breaker. I knew after I kicked his ass at air hockey for the third time that day (and his only response was a soft, “Oh well, ya can’t win ‘em all.” Smile.), that I needed more from my future-ex-husband. I needed excitement. I needed him to get pissed off I was killing him at air hockey. I so desperately needed him to swear, to not call when he said he would, to look at the girl’s ass who walked past us in tight jeans, to do something unpredictable. And quit freaking smiling, dammit!

Never once was there passion between our eyes, souls, (or sheets, for that matter). Not one time did we partake in any activity that could not be enjoyed by the under-15 crowd. No candlelit dinners. No romantic rendezvous’.

He was classy in an emotionally elementary type of way, not classy in the wow-your-woman with adult pleasures sense. He was sweet, like a little blushing boy. He was sadly naïve, inexperienced, and sadly uncool. His respectful nature was over the top. “Spontaneous” would never be used to describe him.

After a couple months of this boring existence with Mr.-soft-nice-reality-guy, I had to let him down easily, although I think a wild break-up scene might have toughened him up a bit. But, I already knew he was in over his head. I knew we’d probably never get in an argument, which ruled out make-up sex. I accepted he was boring. He dressed like a bore, talked like a bore. His smile even became boring. I accepted I would find more compatibility from my close gay guy friends, as well as beauty and wardrobe advice. I accepted I had nothing to offer this nice guy, and he would never be able to handle my occasional need for down and dirty sex, let alone my four days of PMS. Poor Mr.-nice-reality-guy and I were just not compatible. I still hadn’t figured out what I needed from a future spouse, but I knew this nice-guys-finish-last poster child would fair better with the girl underneath the Barney costume on PBS. Poor guy. If only he knew what he missed. Smile!