By the time I made it to college, I thought I had a pretty good handle on what qualities I found attractive in a woman. I like my women like I like my coffee -- hot, just a little bit sweet, black (but I'm also fine if it's tan, or white [I often put too much milk into my coffee, but that's OK]), likes movies, tells funny jokes, watches too much television, appreciates my funny funny dances, is impressed with how fast I am and gets along well with my dog.
The perfect cup of coffee/... woman?
(I'm not great at metaphors.)
My point is that, by a certain age, I thought I knew the basic, superficial things that I found attractive in a person. "No more surprises in the attractiveness department" was a phrase I probably said out loud.
Then all of that changed. One night, I was on a double date with my buddy and some women that he knew from a place (I'm not great at remembering details). We went to the beach, because that's where poor people go when they want to be romantic. This particular beach had a bunch of large rocks, and because I wanted to impress my date (and because I'm crazy good at climbing and jumping), I spent some time climbing and subsequently jumping from rock to rock. In accordance with a clause in the tenuous laws that balance the universe, I'm not actually allowed to be impressive in front of women, so naturally I slipped off one of the rocks and sliced the ever-loving crap out of my hand.
"Nah, I'm fine, baby, I like it better this way. So, like what's your sign?"