I feel a little bad about my last post. I really hope this guy doesn’t google my name and find it. Anyhoo, after reading my cousin’s comment on my last post (Hi Kelly!), I want to continue to discuss this topic of “pickiness.” So, let’s dive into this a little deeper and talk about The List.

The List refers to the list of attributes or traits a girl wants to find in a man, and I’ve broken it down into 3 different tiers.

• Must-Haves: The no-exceptions rules. These include religion, family aspirations, morals, some personality traits, etc.

• Nice-to_Haves: Things that are desirable in a mate but not deal breakers. These include common interests, family background, physical features, job, money habits, etc.

• Definitely-Nots: things that make you say “I would rather die a horrible death than marry that guy.” These include mental illnesses, addictions, really bad personality traits, etc.

The List is derived from experiences from previous relationships. For example, I seriously dated a guy who suffered from clinical depression, and it was horrible. So one of my Definitely-Nots is depression. Sorry, I just don’t think I can deal with it. Or let’s consider my best friend. Her List states the guy has to be a professional. She is a professional herself (a lawyer), and it’s just been a problem for her in the past dating guys who are insecure and intimidated by her success.

Granted, some items on The List are superficial like  “6’ is my minimum” or “he has to save the world from terrorists.” This is often a result of watching too many romantic movies. But The List changes over time as you live and learn what really matters and what doesn’t. Now I want someone who “holds my hair back when I’m puking” or “isn’t in a bad mood all the time.”

So when you say we’re “picky,” it’s because we know ourselves. We know what makes us happy and what doesn’t. The other day I asked my dad, “What would you think if I married a humble sports coach who made only $40,000 a year,” to which he replied, “it all depends on the guy.” Yup, it’s about the guy. He’s when everything you thought you cared about goes right out the window.

**So if you want to date Jenny, you have to be 6’ tall, 185 lbs, thick hair and beautiful blue eyes, and your second toe can’t be longer than the first. You must either be a doctor or a lawyer who won a NCAA title in tennis in college and started a non-profit organization helping women start small businesses in Africa. You also have to bake a killer chocolate cake (but not vanilla), speak French and Chinese, and play Stairway to Heaven upside down with your eyes closed.

Just kidding!

I had to leave my vacation early so my dad wouldn’t miss my brother Chris’s HS football game. You see, my family is obsessed with sport, and Chris is finally a Badger athlete with a possible future in it. He plays free safety for the best HS football program in the state. He has two older brothers who played football and tried playing college ball, but either due to injury or the army, neither got very far.

So the family has put our last hopes into Chris—especially our brother Troy.

Troy was born with amazing athletic ability, except for one fatal flaw—his height. Whether he stunted his growth drinking too much Dr. Pepper as a teenager, or whether karma caught up to him for practicing WWF moves on me as a kid, Troy never made it despite his potential. But, with everything in his power, he’s making sure Chris will.

For the past two years, Troy has been raising/farming/breeding Chris to become a D1 football player by literally monitoring every hour of Chris’s life. He transformed 1/2 of our garage into a home gym, even building a custom squat rack (Well, he didn’t personally build it. See Handyman post). Like clockwork, he calls Chris every 2 hours and tells him what to eat.

This behavior has gone to the extent where I believe Chris slightly fears Troy. For example, when my dad, Troy, and Chris were playing golf last summer, my dad asked the kid, “Hey, Chris! Wanna hot dog?” Without hesitation, Chris instinctually turned and looked at Troy for permission.

(I’m a actually little worried about the kid. Last week Chris came up to hang and relax in Park City. I came home to find him passed out on the couch—chocolate all over his face—and my secret stash of candy wrappers all over the floor. When I woke him, he didn’t know where he was.)

But Troy doesn’t stop there. Using various aliases, Troy comments on popular football blogs in order to hype up Chris for recruiters. In addition, Troy personally accompanies Chris last summer to football camps across the country. Even when his wife was due in one week to deliver their first child, Troy went with Chris to the UCLA camp. He also tried to skip his med school graduation for another camp, but his wife wouldn’t allow it.

I, on the other hand, personally attribute Chris’s athletic success to the year he and I lived together. About 3 years ago, Chris raced for the Park City Ski Team. To be closer to the mountain for training, he moved in with me (and my roommates!) in Park city. My roommates moved out–leaving just Chris and me. Chris wasn’t really used to maternal authority, as the first four kids in our family wore our actual mom out. So I was a substitute parent for the year. He didn’t like how I made him take the bus, and we had some pretty intense shouting matches over eating peas and carrots. Nevertheless, I fed Chris like a horse, and he subsequently put on 30 pounds that year—significantly increasing his strength and size right before high school.

Currently, Chris has two offers from BYU and Utah, with more expected to come after this year. Below is a highlight film from his games thus far this season. He’s number 7, and it shouldn’t surprise you to know that was Troy’s number as well.

**So if you want to date Jenny, it’s important to understand these family dynamics and their obsession with sport. Currently, about 90% of family conversations are  focused around Chris and his football career.

I’m traveling right now with my dad. We’re great travel partners and enjoy each other’s company as most of the time we prefer reading our books to talking. It’s great.

While waiting for our flight to take off, we discovered something new about each other—Germaphobia. Yes, we discussed the particular challenge germaphobes face when traveling, such as how airplane bathrooms require some pretty good technique.

I’m a closet Germaphobe. I try to avoid announcing it to the world, but I fight a secret battle against the world everyday—the world of germs. My mind is constantly plagued about what I’m touching or who has touched that.

Below are some symptoms of my case of Germaphobia.

I use my knuckle to push elevator buttons.

I’ll wait by a door for someone else to open it so I don’t have to touch the handle.And if I have to touch the door, I deftly try to touch the part of the handle that is the least likely touched.

I ride subways and trains like I’m surfing a wave. (I’ve gotten pretty good at this, btw.)

When there’s a bowl of lemons next to the drink station, I look over my shoulder so nobody sees me pick up a lemon with my hand to avoid touching the tongs. Why would I touch a piece of metal every other dirty hand has touched and then use my hand to squeeze the lemon into my drink. But don’t worry. I always make sure I touch only MY lemon.

Now I recognize that germ awareness is a slippery slope. I’m not bad. I don’t have OCD. I don’t use Purell as often as you think.

But as a doctor’s daughter, I’m inherently aware of the disease all around us. After our conversation about Germaphobia, I’m coming to the conclusion that it’s genetic.

For example, after I told my dad about how I handle lemon tongs, he told me the story about how he tried to politely explain to the Spanish-speaking lunch lady in the hospital cafeteria that the spoons in the utensil cup should be positioned with the handles up. She puts them in with scoop-end up so when someone grabs a spoon, they can’t help touching the other scoop-ends of the spoons. He wasn’t sure she understood his strange request.

But my dad’s Germaphobia runs even deeper—especially when it comes to hotels. He won’t stay at a hotel unless they have a washable duvet. And if they don’t, he asks for extra sheets so he can make his own duvet out of the bed. He also grabs the complimentary plastic bags at the TSA checkpoint and puts the hotel channel changer in it so he doesn’t have to touch the buttons. On the trip we’re on now, he bought Clorox wipes to wipe down all the handles, light switches, and sink faucets. Now I’m not THAT bad, but I can’t deny I didn’t applaud his actions either.

Above all, I don’t want to be rude to others. I put a stop to it there, even if I internally suffer. I will always shake someone’s hand even though my mind thinks, “Where has this thing been?”

At times I do voice up. I try to inform others of the proper way to sneeze, which is into your elbow and not your hand. I don’t know if people always appreciate my polite rebuke. For example, after the third time I got after my good friend Adam about sneezing into his hand, we got into a little riff.

“Dude, Adam. Listen! I’ve told you a gazillion times. Sneeze into your elbow!”

“No, Jenny, you listen. You’re the reason why society has created an army of Supergerms that are immune to our medicine and antibiotics. You and your stupid Purell. It’s actually healthy for your body to be exposed to bacteria so it can build up an immunity.”

Whether I’m creating Supergerms or protecting myself from inconsiderate individuals who don’t wash their hands after using the bathrooms, I don’t know. But my advice to my readers: Don’t think about it. Once you open your eyes to the world of germs that are all around us, there’s no going back.

**So if you want to date Jenny, for goodness’ sake sneeze into your elbow! Who knows what other bad habits would scare her away.