An Ode to the Nerd

It seems to be the trend of girls my age to gush over the tanned, muscle-laden hunks flanking the mural-sized posters of Abercrombie & Fitch, to melt at the feet of the bad boy James Dean clone who cuts class frequently due to hangovers. I have never been able to fall for these types of guys; I stare at the bronzed models at Abercrombie only to marvel at the air-brushing techniques used to hide the nasty veins that accompany muscles of that size, and I frequently dub the class-skippers as careless and irresponsible, myself being the geeky type that attends class with any ailment--even if it means almost fainting during a lecture. But, to each girl her own.
In high school, my eyes wandered not to the golden-haired sweet-talking jock with the basketball scholarship and hundreds of friends constantly at his side--no, no. My gaze was directed towards the outskirts of the class, to the boy constantly spurting witty remarks, shunned by the cool kids with detestful eye-rolls but receiving snickers from the rest of us--teacher included.
My type of guy boldly picks up the Kafka novel instead of the dumbells, frequents seedy record stores instead of the football games--unless, of course, he's in the marching band. His hair is often dissheveled and cut by his mom's friend, his complexion is pasty and sensitive, and his frame is lanky and awkward. He's the guy on the dance floor wiggling his arms like a frantic chicken, the guy staring at the bookshelf or the record collection at parties, the guy listening to Death Cab for Cutie and swooning over Natalie Portman instead of thumping Lil Wayne and making lewd comments about Jessica Alba. My guy may have failed gym class, but he surely excelled in AP physics.
So, to all of the Buddy Hollys out there, and to all of the Mary Tyler Moores, and to all of those who caught the Weezer reference: continue to be you. Flaunt those thick-rimmed glasses, strut in those pants that are a little too short, and sport that sweater vest with ambition. The world needs men with more substance in their brains and hearts than in their pecs and abs--more real in a world becoming faker by the minute. Who cares if you spend Saturday nights playing Dungeons and Dragons or harbor an unhealthy infatuation with Liv Tyler in Lord of the Rings?