I love pretty boys. I love manly men. I like ‘em tall, I like ‘em short. I like men with blue eyes, men with good senses of humor, and men who look good in a pair of worn, faded blue jeans. But you know how I can tell I’ve gotten older and my tastes are refining…? The kind of man that I find most attractive is a committed one.

And I don’t mean that in some sort of twisted, man-stealing, gold-digger sense. I don’t lust after taken guys… I lust after what they represent. I’ve often told Dave, this cute Scottish bartender at my regular dive, that the sexiest thing about him is his wedding ring. It’s completely true and I say it with no ulterior motive. He is so, so appealing because that band glints in the low light of the bar as he works the Guinness tap and it says, “I’m going home to my wife at 4 a.m.” I don’t know about anybody else, but I want that. That sense of “I belong to someone and he belongs to me.” It’s incredibly sexy.

Here in the city, when you see a woman with a child, nine out of ten times, it’s a nanny. You can just tell. Usually because the kid in the stroller and the accompanying woman aren’t the same color and aren’t speaking the same language — and, yes, I know that’s not always an indicator, thank you, Angelina. But when you see a guy with their child, it’s a lot more obvious. A man in a business suit with a three-year-old wriggling in one arm as he hails a cab with the other… not a manny! And I find it SO adorable. It’s Hot Dad Syndrome. A good-looking man with a kid sends a message straight to my marrow, screaming, “This is for the long haul,” and “This is a possibility,” and “You, too, can have this complete package for just five payments of $19.99.” I want that.

I was in Baskin Robbins earlier today, angsting over the newly affixed calorie counts over each flavor, when an absolutely gorgeous dad and his adorable daughter arrived at the counter. Moments later, I realized there was a mom, too, but that didn’t really change my bone-deep sense of “oh, God, this is beautiful.” In fact, I watched all three of them with a growing sense of joy. It probably helped that they were Bengali American, like I am, and the little girl who couldn’t have been more than four, was plaintively demanding her “baba” pick a flavor she liked. As they switched effortlessly back and forth between slightly-accented Bengali and unaccented English, just like I do, and he swung her in his arms, it was like looking into the waters of a wishing well. The wife trying Jamoca Almond Fudge, smiling at her husband as he teasingly sat his daughter on top of the trashcan and threatened to leave her there… I want that. They probably thought I was a weirdo because I just couldn’t stop grinning, and you really can’t tell that I’m Bengali from looking at me. I get pegged for Latina more than anything else.

And more than anything else, the idea of commitment, of family, of permanence, has an allure for me.

I love pretty boys. I love manly men. I like ‘em tall, I like ‘em short. I like men with blue eyes, men with good senses of humor, and men who look good in a pair of worn, faded blue jeans.

But most of all, I like a man who knows the meaning of love.

Yeah, I most definitely want that.