You just need to catch her in her good state

I’M much better looking in the Midwest. In Los Angeles, I’m considered to be an attractive woman, maybe pretty, but take me out of L.A. and I seem to be downright hot.

In an airport in Cincinnati I was approached by quite possibly the most handsome man I had ever seen. Had this been Los Angeles, a second glance my way wouldn’t have been likely. But it was Ohio, and I suddenly had a date with the usually unattainable. And in Ann Arbor, Mich., forget about it, I feel like a supermodel (well, a short one).

So what is it about L.A. that automatically knocks a cute little brunet with no additives from a 10 to 8? OK, to a 7?

Maybe it’s those first encounters. In the fly-over states, there’s precious little of the detached cool that comes with living in the land of beautiful people. Instead there is a directness that starts with the first eye contact -- and yes, unlike in L.A., actual eye contact is made.

This theory is derived from years of romantic entanglements in all four time zones. I’ve spent more time on airplanes for love than I’d like to admit -- well, not necessarily for love, but there have been dalliances with a blackjack dealer in Las Vegas, a chef in Scottsdale, Ariz.; a furniture guy in Park City, Utah; a wine distributor in Chicago; a liquor store owner in Ann Arbor, Mich.; and a computer programmer in Washington, D.C. With each long-distance liaison, though, I reached the same conclusion -- we would never have an area code in common. That, and I seem to fancy men in the food and beverage industry.

Truth be told, I’m all for my L.A. boys. After all, you’re the reason I drag myself to the gym every day. You’re whom I want to date; I’m just saying it would be great to be able to skip the uncomfortable plane ride to be ogled. That’s right, guys -- feel free to turn your heads, smile and say hello. Won’t hurt a bit. You’ll be fine, promise.

After all, Los Angeles has 40,000 more single men than women (according to a recent study in National Geographic). Where in the heck are you guys? Have we actually made a self-fulfilling prophecy out of our own stereotype? If L.A. is where all the pretty people live, are they the only ones who exist?

In line at Rite Aid the other day, I noticed a gorgeous guy; tall, tanned and toned. He flashed a killer-watt smile, so I spun around to see who he was smiling at. There was no one behind me. Was he actually smiling at me? After all, this isn’t Cincinnati, this is Los Angeles and I am a 7.

I grinned back and said hello. We made small talk for a moment and then it was my turn at the counter. As I waved goodbye and turned to leave, I thought that, at least for those few minutes, I felt like a 10.

Either that or he just moved here from Ohio.

weekend@latimes.com