One of several women in a Daily Mail article about highly educated women who never get dates:
Becca recalls a factory worker she asked out in a bar while home for the holidays turning her down because she was “too clever” for him.
“We were having a great chat until he found out I was at university,” says Becca. “I insisted I wasn’t too clever for him and he agreed to go on a shopping trip together for our first date. But it was awful. I think he felt I should lead the conversation, so he barely spoke and I felt too awkward to say anything.”
Her longest relationship was with a car mechanic from Burnley last year. It lasted a few weeks.
“He thought I viewed myself as a big shot,” says Becca, who admits she found him “monosyllabic.”
“Our conversations were mundane. When I tried to start an informed discussion — about religion or terrorism, for example — he had no idea how to react. He didn’t understand that my degree meant I had a head full of information and when I asked him about his work all he could muster was that it had been “fine.”
I am, by a considerable margin, the least-educated person of this age you’re ever likely to see. (I started school in 1961, and gave it up some time in 1970.) Women with post-graduate degrees aren’t exactly drawn to me — why would they be? — but I don’t do badly at holding up my end of the conversation. At the very least, I’m polysyllabic. (There are, of course, good reasons why we shouldn’t be together, but those come later.)
It’s not about about the intelligence, the cleverness, or the credentials, but rather, the attitude that tends to come with it. Men know perfectly well how to deal with educated women: they avoid them. They do so because they want an attractive and pleasant companion, not an argumentative opponent trained by her professors to regard every conversational interaction as a formal debate.
This, I suspect, may be a function of her major: someone with a degree in a STEM subject is, I believe, somewhat less likely to treat an encounter as a Teachable Moment.
But then, what do I know? I meet relatively few women. And it’s probably just as well, since I am subject to the occasional brain freeze, and if she’s beautiful it’s like a shot of liquid nitrogen. And it’s not like I haven’t contemplated this issue before:
I don’t think I’d be any more desirable (or, more precisely, any less undesirable) with a sheaf of postgraduate degrees — but frankly, what would a plumber have to say to an art historian? Or, for that matter, what would an art historian have to say to a plumber?
We’ll never know unless we can get them to talk to each other. And if, by some fluke, I am drawn to, say, a PhD in French literature, it’s at least 50 percent up to me to start the conversation.
(Via Daily Pundit.)