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| Eternally Hopeful Heart By Paul Barile |
I have to believe that somewhere in the greater Chicagoland area there is
at least one woman I haven't asked out on a date. I have to keep the
eternal flame of hope burning because – well – I am that guy. I am the guy
who refuses to give up on love in the face of certain – and perpetual –
disappointment. I am the guy hanging out at O'Hare looking for unfamiliar
faces.
I am the guy who sees a smiling girl on the corner of Madison and State –
driving in my sexy red trolley – and am convinced that smile was meant only
for me. By the time I get to Monroe Street, we're introducing each other to
our closest friends and family. (My friends are proud of me for such a great
catch. Her family is happy because I eat Mom's mystery casserole.)
By the time I get to Adams Street, we are picking out China patterns and
giving our mutt a clever name. (I want a Bulldog. She wants a Jack Russell
Terrier. She wins. We name it Spike.)
By the time I get to Van Buren Street, we are making plans for an expensive
wedding in Naperville and buying baby-name books. (I'm leaning toward
Emily for a girl and Jack for a boy. She likes Hunter for a boy and Chloe for
a girl.)
I am the guy who would view a hair-bone-horn protruding from her forehead
an asset (someplace to hang my keys) if that was the only requirement for
a second date. She would gaze lovingly into my eyes as I put on my
protective head gear so that the hair-bone-horn wouldn't puncture my skull
during what would otherwise be a cuddly moment.
I would have taken Lizzie Borden to a gun and knife show. I would have
bought Delilah some scissors. I would take Roseanne Barr to the Old
Country Buf – OK… That might be a bit much.
The problem – obviously – begins with me. I am an overweight and
underemployed Caucasian male who enjoys musical theater and owns a
cat. The odds are stacked against me from the gate. I might as well direct a
Terrence McNally play or a music video for a Cher impersonator in my
spare time.
One would think my absolute lack of fashion sense would be enough to
convince some maternal-minded woman to step in and stop me before I buy
another sleeveless shirt. My inability to part with more than $5 for a haircut
has got to be viewed as a desperate scream for help. Don't even get me
started on the sandals.
I have no ambition to be a player, nor do I want to be a serial dater. I want
to be a boyfriend – then a husband – then a daddy. I am that guy.
I am the guy who is the best wingman in Chicago because if I am not going
to get what I want, at least I can facilitate it and be around to watch every
other guy on the planet get what he wants.
One of the pretty ones asked me what I was looking for in a woman.
“A pulse,” I replied.
“You can do better,” she said. “You deserve better.”
She's probably right, but I don't seem to have the skill for getting the better
ones. I have too much self-esteem to settle for the lesser ones. I know there
is a perfect one out there. I know that somewhere there is a woman who is
writing an essay about not being able to find a man.
I imagine I'll find her someday. She'll be smart and pretty and ambitious and
fertile and hungry for the love that I am waiting to smother her with…
Smother? Well not right away anymore…but eventually….
In the meantime, if you're looking for me; I'll be the guy at the arrivals gate
at O'Hare with a blank look on my face and a bouquet of roses with no
name on the card. I am that guy.
at least one woman I haven't asked out on a date. I have to keep the
eternal flame of hope burning because – well – I am that guy. I am the guy
who refuses to give up on love in the face of certain – and perpetual –
disappointment. I am the guy hanging out at O'Hare looking for unfamiliar
faces.
I am the guy who sees a smiling girl on the corner of Madison and State –
driving in my sexy red trolley – and am convinced that smile was meant only
for me. By the time I get to Monroe Street, we're introducing each other to
our closest friends and family. (My friends are proud of me for such a great
catch. Her family is happy because I eat Mom's mystery casserole.)
By the time I get to Adams Street, we are picking out China patterns and
giving our mutt a clever name. (I want a Bulldog. She wants a Jack Russell
Terrier. She wins. We name it Spike.)
By the time I get to Van Buren Street, we are making plans for an expensive
wedding in Naperville and buying baby-name books. (I'm leaning toward
Emily for a girl and Jack for a boy. She likes Hunter for a boy and Chloe for
a girl.)
I am the guy who would view a hair-bone-horn protruding from her forehead
an asset (someplace to hang my keys) if that was the only requirement for
a second date. She would gaze lovingly into my eyes as I put on my
protective head gear so that the hair-bone-horn wouldn't puncture my skull
during what would otherwise be a cuddly moment.
I would have taken Lizzie Borden to a gun and knife show. I would have
bought Delilah some scissors. I would take Roseanne Barr to the Old
Country Buf – OK… That might be a bit much.
The problem – obviously – begins with me. I am an overweight and
underemployed Caucasian male who enjoys musical theater and owns a
cat. The odds are stacked against me from the gate. I might as well direct a
Terrence McNally play or a music video for a Cher impersonator in my
spare time.
One would think my absolute lack of fashion sense would be enough to
convince some maternal-minded woman to step in and stop me before I buy
another sleeveless shirt. My inability to part with more than $5 for a haircut
has got to be viewed as a desperate scream for help. Don't even get me
started on the sandals.
I have no ambition to be a player, nor do I want to be a serial dater. I want
to be a boyfriend – then a husband – then a daddy. I am that guy.
I am the guy who is the best wingman in Chicago because if I am not going
to get what I want, at least I can facilitate it and be around to watch every
other guy on the planet get what he wants.
One of the pretty ones asked me what I was looking for in a woman.
“A pulse,” I replied.
“You can do better,” she said. “You deserve better.”
She's probably right, but I don't seem to have the skill for getting the better
ones. I have too much self-esteem to settle for the lesser ones. I know there
is a perfect one out there. I know that somewhere there is a woman who is
writing an essay about not being able to find a man.
I imagine I'll find her someday. She'll be smart and pretty and ambitious and
fertile and hungry for the love that I am waiting to smother her with…
Smother? Well not right away anymore…but eventually….
In the meantime, if you're looking for me; I'll be the guy at the arrivals gate
at O'Hare with a blank look on my face and a bouquet of roses with no
name on the card. I am that guy.
All files © Copyright 2008 The Sylvan Echo