SG: Well, how did your Christmas break goal go?
Me: BAH. Epic fail. I didn't find a husband.
SG: Whoa. Uh, I'm not going to respond to that.
I am about to tell a story on myself. Isn't that the definition of a writer? Someone who tells stories, sometimes at the expense of themselves (or is that a comedienne?). I would refrain because I may come across in a less than sparkling light, but I'm not really one to refrain from things, unless they involve olives. I often find myself refraining from olives. If you think I should have refrained, you are free to say so, as long as you tell me why.
I didn't set a New Year's resolution, but I did make a Christmas Break resolution: find a boyfriend. You may laugh, but I was serious, sort of. I didn't exactly expect to be successful, but figured it wouldn't hurt to make one such goal. After all, I conjectured, I had two weddings, a couple holiday-ish parties and some Sundays at church.
I was skeptical of the first wedding because the bride and groom were, um, probably in the top .001% of smart people in America. Those kinds of people are not always known for their good looks and charm, but these two broke the mold. Lo and behold, the groom had a brother who was not a shame to look at. I would give him a general TDH classification (tall, dark and handsome). This could be him. He gave a superior best man speech, complete with sincere tears. There was a dance floor. I was dancing. His brother, the groom, was a good dancer, so there was a high probability that Mr. Best Man had some family talent as well. I waited and I waited and I wore my fabulous leopard dress and I smiled and you know what happened? Nothing. A big fat nothing. I surmised that he had a girlfriend. Jordy kindly suggested, in a sweet, maligning way that he probably had several.
The parties were no better. There was a slight prospect at one, but we were never introduced, so that was a flop. I know we don't live in Victorian England, but as outgoing as I am, I still own reluctances about sidling up to boys and introducing myself. The events were dwindling. The second wedding was smaller than the first, and that particular best man, though one of the most charming men I have ever met, probably would not be attracted to a girl who climbed rocks and trees.
Then I met him. *Wistful sigh.* Oh reader, let me tell you. He was a dreamboat. According to Merriam-Webster, that means he was "highly desirable or a very attractive person". We met through mutual friends at an… event. (Here's where telling stories on yourself gets tricky sticky.) He was kind and good looking and let's just say, hypothetically, if he really wanted to lift a small car, he probably could. He seemed sweet and easy going, easy to talk to, all of that.
Enter the fatal flaw. I'm not talking about a silly fatal flaw that's not really a fatal flaw like he has a crooked nose or he bites his nails or something. Fatal flaws are seeeeerious. This one isn't insurmountable, like he hates learning (a teacher's deal breaker) or he's dead. I was trying to think of insurmountable fatal flaws, but that doesn't even make sense because you can't date dead people because that's WEIRD.
The most ludicrous part of this whole thing is I don't really know him as a person. I know things about him that I like, but it's not like we sat down and talked for an hour at this...event. The other most ludicrous (I know, there should only be one superlative because that's what makes it a superlative) part of it is that I understand that, but I'm still hoping the fatal flaw will be overcome and he will sweep me off my happy feet when I get home in July. Does he know any of this? Of course not. Will I absolutely die a slow death of mortification if you tell him? Yes, reader, I will. I hope we have an understanding. You probably don't know him anyway.
I'm not too surprised this was a failed Christmas goal. That's not to say I didn't spend time with scores of fabulous, upstanding gentlemen, but none of them were crazy enough to ask me out while I was home for a month. And that's OK. I think I keep expecting to see a man in the airport or out running or walking across the church campus that has "Sunshine's Man" written across his forehead. That I'll just know, it'll be instant spark and playing catch and intellectual conversations and of course dancing. Maybe that's unrealistic? I haven't heard too many love stories that started with "he had my name emblazoned on his forehead, so I just knew". Actually, I can't think of any that started that way.
Undaunted, and as sappy of a romantic as ever,
Little Miss Sunshine
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