If You’re Reading This, This isn’t About You
This is about some mythical girl, the impossible woman, the one who doesn’t exist. I like to tease the women I know who are looking for datable guys. “I want a fireman”, but then he has to be tall. “OK, this one is tall and firemany, but he doesn’t do X”, or Y, or Z. You could put a dozen good looking millionaires who are down to earth and friends with your friends, but they’d never fit the bill.
That’s one kind of problem. My kind of problem is that I want something that doesn’t exist. A person who, if she existed, would instantly implode upon herself.
I want the girl who has blond hair, but wants to let her brown hair grow out. The kind of woman who looks great in an evening gown, but likes to wear jeans with holes in them. She wants to enjoy the life in the city, but wants a small house in the suburbs. She’s athletic and competitive, but needs to feel protected just as much as I do. She’s the kind of girl who loves to cook and loves to go out. The kind of woman who always wants to snuggle and is just as happy on her side of the bed. She has the alpha persona that drives her forward, but she spends more of her time outside of work than in it. Nor is she religious, but she knows she needs some sort of spiritual component to her life. She is happy and sad, proud and humble, courageous and weak all at once and not at all. Most importantly, she loves me for being all of those things too.