March Madness, Madness Indeed

Muscle mass is manly, according to all the thirteen-year old girls i have encountered in my life. More manly though, is a guy in sports. No matter, what sport - I am assured by my younger female counter -parts, be in tennis, soccer, football, track, basketball, even cricket - any sport will do. Sweaty, testosterone driven guys all leaping manically to throw a measly sphere into a net 10 feet above their heads, that is what is supposed to leave me panting with estrogen driven desire. Alas, I do not find this attractive. Football college athletes in tights scrambling to jump each other other's bones, it just doesn't leave my heart a-thumping, just with a raised, disdainful brow and a shrug. Their pathetic attempt to revert to the caveman era doesn't impress, it just disheartens me that Darwinian fitness has not eliminated fitness. Maybe I am heartless, maybe I am an alien race, but I cannot shake this thought that if I am, I cannot be alone. Surely I am not the only girl who finds that a beefy guy can often resemble a gorilla: all bulk, no brain. This is not true all the time, I realize, but I still find that pale species whose habitat consists of the library more alluring, preferably the British variety, and maybe, just maybe this gentleman Darcy will have loathed gym class as much as I always have. Maybe one day March Madness will no longer drive me mad, but until that day I leave you with a motto I live by, courtesy of Oscar Wilde:
"Whenever I feel like exercise, I always lie down until the feeling passes."