The Man of my (Possibly Unreasonable) Dreams

I never planned on being single at 31. I never even considered it a possibility and yet this mythical milestone of my own making looms ahead in just a few weeks. The thing is, aside from the loneliness, lack of sex, self-reliance, aging ovaries and societal disapproval, being single ain’t so bad! Alright, I admit those are some significant drawbacks. But there are some noteworthy advantages to being single as well. No, really! I do tons of awesome stuff every week that makes me happy like yoga and taking Sadie the Dog to the park and happy hour and bookclub and kickball games and naps and dinner with my mom and friends and crocheting and day drinking. I don’t have to answer to anyone when I hit snooze 7 times. I can prepare just mashed potatoes for dinner if I choose to do so. I can get drunk with guy friends without any chance for suspicion. I vacation where and when I please. And yet, despite my unforeseen comfort with singledom, I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that something is missing.

I’m feeling like maybe, kind of, sort of, I might consider joining the dating scene again. This time, however, I’ve got some pretty high standards. I’ve been doing some self-reflection and observation, possibly a bit too much, in fact. Suddenly, I’ve transformed into a woman with picky needs. For example, I met a cute guy recently. We’re chatting, smiling, etcetera when he mentions he’s originally from Minnesota and goes back often for some familial fun. A year ago my immediate reaction would have been, “Oh that’s so great that he cares about his family.” My actual inner monologue this time? “Ugh. Can’t marry this guy. Spending Christmas in Minnesota would be awful.” Uh oh. Am I actually a curmudgeon now? Or is something else less senior citizen at play here? Possible answer: yep. Age has set in and I’m that old maid who is too set in her ways to do crazy things like compromise on holiday plans. Or... maybe my hesitance in finding true love has put me on heartbreak alert level red. To decipher between the things I require in a partner and the excuses I have conjured up as a way to avoid having my soul trampled again, I have compiled a list of “Things I Want In A Man.”

He should obviously be educated, but not so pretentious that he insists on buying season tickets to the opera or anything else that will be beyond my limited intelligence and appreciation.

I want him to be healthy but not so overzealous that he refuses to stop at In ‘n’ Out at 1am when I am drunk and hungry.

He should be nerdy enough to do the crossword with me on Sunday mornings.

I want him to call me out on my crap but understand that I’m going to screw up sometimes and brattiness might ensue.

He must be masculine but not some macho guy who won’t let our preschooler daughter paint his toenails when she’s bored.

He should find me sexy, smart, funny and kind, in whatever order of importance I prefer at any given moment.

I want him to care about the things I care about but to be more rational than I am capable of.

I see him taller than I am, hipster glasses, a tuft of chest hair, an endearing belly, baseball caps adorning his head, and hands that make mine look feminine in comparison.

He should give into me a lot of the time but put his foot down when I’m just being ridiculous because this will no doubt occur.

I need him to want to know about my Dad, who he was, how he loved us, the life he led.

He’s got to be goofy. There’s simply no other way to grasp the true depth of my made-up, impromptu songs and underwear dances.

He’ll have to understand that I want romance and love songs and grand gestures in addition to practical displays of love like taking out the trash and picking up the dry cleaning when I get too overwhelmed with daily life. Okay, that’s a lie. I don’t dry clean clothes. He’ll have to accept that too.

And when things go bad and the wrinkles around my eyes are too deep not to notice and the kids are sleeping in our bed at 3 am and we have forgotten to pay the cable bill so we can’t watch whatever HBO drama that is making Monday nights tolerable and I once again didn’t properly cook the rice and his mother has been calling everyday in the middle of breakfast and I realize during foreplay that I haven’t shaved my legs in a week and we bicker on our trip to Paris about the accurate pronunciation of “Notre Dame” and we bury our grandparents and parents and we get tempted to stray and the car breaks down because he didn’t get an oil change when he should have... when things go bad, he won’t be afraid to stick it out. He’ll know that life is just sometimes like that and he’d rather go through it with me than anyone else.

Maybe I’m asking for a lot. Maybe I’m looking for someone who doesn’t exist. Maybe I’m too much of a pain in the ass to deserve this “ideal man.” Maybe I’m not ready to find out.