A good friend asked me recently what I looked for in a man. If I were 10 years younger I would have came up with a long list that revolves mostly in some girlish fantasy of an ideal man sweeping me off my feet; looking into whose eyes made time stand still and living together happily ever after.
But I am 32, with a 3-year old child in my sole care and terrible at making ends meet: and I’ve already learned (the hard way) that kisses aren’t promises and that making love doesn’t bind one’s soul to another. So I cheekily quipped that I want somebody financially stable and really sweet and special who will love my son more than he loves me; who’ll be a real father to him and take care of us our whole lives. Blah…blah…blah…I guess the usual single mother’s dream of an ideal man…the list goes longer.
If I take a look at that list, I’d guess he hasn’t been born yet. Nobody comes in one perfect package. You know what I just want? A sweet caring man whose eyes I will feel on me even when I’ve looked away. A man caring enough to know the nitty-gritty details of me: a man who’ll look deep into my dark brown eyes and tell me that they’re actually amber near the iris and they turn almost green when I look into the sun.
(Yeah, somebody into that kind-a-detail even if my eyes are the darkest brown there is and can’t probably change its colors.)
What is it with men and garbage anyway? He he.