Chapter Seventeen

I've been thinking a lot lately about men. I used to think that my relationship with the other sex could best be summed up by the phrase: "Can't live with them; can't live without them!"  Don't get me wrong; my husband was a good man. He was kind and generous and honest and smart. He loved me more than anyone else had ever loved me. I think I loved him BECAUSE he loved me so much, if that makes any sense. And I am a practical gal and he was the practical choice for a partner. I needed someone who wouldn't balk at my long hours and the grueling demands of a medical career. I needed to be with someone who would share the parenting responsibilities with me in the years before men were held accountable for parenting. We were good together. We raised two lovely daughters. We cared for one another.

But...I know...I know...why does there always have to be a BUT? But, every now and then, I missed the sizzle and spark. I'm  not a Romantic. I don't believe that each of us is designed with one perfect match in mind, one soul-mate. I had a list of things I needed in a partner and Phil had most of those traits. It made sense.

When I came up with my plan to help Sarah, I created another list, a list of the traits that Sarah needed in a mate. I thought I would make a man for her who was caring and smart. A guy who loved to eat and to talk and to cuddle (because Sarah is a much more affectionate gal than I am). But...(YES, here comes another BUT), after spending the last three weeks with Henry, I am suddenly questioning everything I ever thought about the male gender.

Henry does not have all the qualities on my list...other than the obvious appendage. He is bald and short and has a belly that makes me worry about his cholesterol levels. He is not polished like Phil; he is rough around the edges. He laughs too loudly and chews with his mouth open half the time. He cannot play too much golf or
watch too much football. I think anything that involves a ball is a waste of time.

While he frequents his son's gourmet restaurant, he would be much happier eating a slice of Chicago-style deep dish pizza, the greasier the better. He wouldn't know the difference between a Malbec and a Merlot.
Museums bore him and the last novel he actually read cover to cover was Catch 22. He starts every day with a bagel and shmear and two cups of black coffee and the ipad version of the Wall Street Journal.

When I'm with him, I feel like I'm sixteen and I laugh until I'm afraid I'll need to start wearing Depends.
When he touches me, even if his hand accidentally brushes against my shoulder as he's opening the car door for me, I tingle. When I wake up in the morning, I check my phone to see if he's texted me. Every morning since the Josh Groban concert, I've woken up to a cute little text that says something like: "Wake Up Sleeping Beauty," or "Rise and Shine My Valentine." So corny and trite...but I love every bit of it.

Henry would fail any test I would devise about the perfect mate, and yet I am suddenly perfectly happy! I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think its time to re-think everything I thought I knew.