It's official: I've found my dream man. No, it's not Ryan Gosling or Channing Tatum (six packs are overrated, anyway) or George Clooney (back in his “Facts of Life” days, before he got all smug and self-satisfied). No, this Mr. Right is actually a criminal, which actually makes him Mr. Wrong. But hold on a second. Let’s not rush to judgment. Just hear this and tell me if some part of you isn’t the least bit intrigued. I recently read a report of a guy who breaks into a woman’s apartment while she’s away on holidays. She comes back to find him folding her laundry. And when she asks him what he thinks he's doing, he tells her that his next step is to wash the dishes. I have to say, I'm impressed. Any other petty thief would have just taken her flat screen and made a mess in the process. This guy? He’s busy pairing up her socks and folding her towels. Now there’s a man I could get used to…Or at least send homemade chocolate chip cookies to in the Big House.
Apparently, the woman lost no time in calling the police to report an intruder. Well, I would have, too. Eventually. But between you and me, I probably would have let the guy run around with the vacuum before I ratted him out. Good help is hard to find.
That’s the thing about getting older. Not only have I gotten crankier, my standards for a man have changed dramatically. And when I say they’ve changed, I mean I actually have some now. When I was young and carefree (read: dumb as a sack of hammers), all I was wanted was Mr. Good-looking & Fun. Really. As long as the guy was cute and a good kisser, I was happy. This time around, I was looking for Mr. Pays His Bills, Cooks Me Dinner and Picks Up His Dirty Underwear Without Being Asked. Looks were a nice bonus, but unless they came with an intimate knowledge of the proper way to make a bed, I wasn’t going to waste my time, or his.
Nowadays, I’m not willing to guess at anything. I’m about as subtle as a Pitbull video. Or Nicki Minaj's make-up. I don’t think there’s a single pertinent question I haven’t asked my fiancé. And I’m not talking “Oh, Hunny Bunny, if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?” More like: “Are you aware that the only way either one of us is getting out of this is feet first?” Nothing like cutting to the chase.
And as for that weird impulse I've always had to try to make a guy think I was something I was not (nicer/smarter/stronger/braver)? I've had to stomp on that like grapes at harvest time. I don’t want to have to put up any kind of front for someone I live with. The brutal reality is that I snore, suffer from clinical depression, have the tastebuds of a peasant (i.e. my idea of the perfect meal would be KD with extra shredded cheese), love morbidly sad country songs and talk/rant far too loudly at inappropriate moments. Yes folks, there's no two ways about it: I. Am. A. Prize.
The nice thing is that my fiance is fine with all of it. He has been to every neighbourhood in "Jo's Crazytown", and he's still interested in signing on for permanent residency. Brave man. Fact is, he's not one to judge, which is fine by me. As far as I'm concerned, the flip side of having standards seems to be this bizarre need to judge others by those same standards, whether they are applicable or not.
For me to judge others implies that I am superior to them in some way. Uh uh. Last time I checked, nobody died and made me Grand Poobah. Nope. People are certainly entitled to their opinions, but to tell someone that their choices are wrong and/or immoral is just a load of bull puckey. Newsflash: Part of being an adult is respecting other people's choices, even if you don't agree with them. And be gracious about it, for goodness' sake. Otherwise, it's just like saying "I'm sorry, BUT..." It ain't happenin'.
True enough: our friendly neighbourhood B&E'er (aka "Random Laundry Folder") might not be YOUR idea of a dream man. But you've got to make allowances that he's someone's "Mr. Right". I'm just so thankful I've found mine.
And he does windows!
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