I want a champion. Blame it on being hormonal and watching “Eat Pray Love” for the 256th time this weekend. I don’t want a man, I want a champion. Ugh. It saddens me to say that I’m a cliché now. I worked damn hard at becoming an independent badass.
I’ve spent the last few weeks really working at identifying just what I want, and finally exorcising the evil demon of the past. I’m seeing more clearly than I have in a long time. No, I did not give up wine. It turns out I can drink and perform critical self-analysis. I’m a multi-tasker.
You know what I concluded? Being independent is tiring. I’m ok at this point with a guy rescuing me. If he wants to take care of me, fine, as long as I get to keep writing. I’m not resisting it anymore. I know I’ve sent out those signals that I won’t be tamed. That was great at 37. But now I’m going on 43. Fuck it. Go ahead and save me.
I’ve been focusing on finding some brainy guy who is working on curing cancer or gray hair. I thought that someone I admired intellectually would be enough. Well, there would still have to be a physical attraction, and at the end of the day a brainy, average looking guy with good dental hygiene has been appealing to me. If he had an accent, that would be golden. But I’m seeing now that’s not enough.
As I ponder the inevitable zombie apocalypse that will occur if Trump is elected, I want someone who makes me feel safe. Despite my “Shirtless Tuesday” posts on Facebook, I’ve never really thought of myself as superficial. I need someone who can make me laugh, and more importantly, who laughs at my jokes and understands that what I write is meant to entertain. I need someone who can discuss current affairs with me, because no, I haven’t given up the idea of running for office someday. I need someone who loves me for who I am and who I aspire to be and is wholeheartedly supportive of me. I need someone who understands what a healthy relationship is, and is capable of resolving conflicts in an adult way.
On a superficial level, I’ve always been drawn to really tall guys, but that just confirms what I’m realizing now. I’ve written about that fetish before. I know you think it’s for other size-related reasons, but that’s not it. There’s something about being wrapped up in giant arms that makes me feel secure. If he meets the other criteria I listed above, I would have found my soul mate.
But there is one other important factor—his name. I can’t overstate the importance of a name. And I realize it’s a little unfair, because if the guy’s parents were overprotective and never wanted their son to get laid, they might have given him a bad name, like Oswald. As I’ve recently been experimenting on Tinder in my quest to try out every single dating site known to man (you’re up next, BlackSingles!), I’m noticing how many guys I exclude based on their names.
I blame it on my teenage years watching When Harry Met Sally. You know the scene: Sheldon. I’ve adopted that test.
I do make exceptions for clearly foreign guys, because again, I’m an accent whore. So I consider the Gareths, Jorgens, and Cormacs. But not Francisco. Francisco makes me think of “Elf”. Francisco is forever banished with the Sheldons of the world.
If I can’t picture myself screaming a name during sex, I have to swipe left. It has to be a manly name. So even if you’re 6’10”, I’m sorry, Roland. It’s not happening. You too Dennis…even if you’re French and pronounce it “Den-KNEE”. I just can’t.