Day 10: Babies of All Sorts

"Hold That Exhibit For Me!" For the lover of all things art-related to show you're a sophisticated student of the world.

I realize we can't have it all in this life, but is a little politeness at your favorite local coffee shop too much to ask for? Today, after weeks of scrimping on lattes in order to save money, Hank and I decided to pop down to Pablo's on 6th, the only non-gay coffee shop within five blocks, and indulge my non-instant coffee craving. Notorious for its great beans and baristas, the place draws a magically huge crowd for not having the internet. Today was no different. Perhaps to escape the chilly Sunday weather, people had come from all corners of Capital Hill to commune with friends and read. Every table was full. We decided to get the coffee to go.

"What can I get you?" asked the cashier. "Um, can I get a split shot latte with 2%, please? With a little Amaretto in it, but just a splash. Thanks," I said. It's a version of what I always get and have had no problem ordering for the last 10+ years. He looked at me with a lazy expression. "What's a split shot?" He asked. "Oh, half-caf," I said, "It's the same."

Then the guy making the coffee drinks--tall, spiky-haired, emo, coffee guy--blurted out, "Oh great. Could you possibly add anything else to this drink?" He said it loud enough for the whole line behind me to hear. Here's where things descended into customer hell, and my memory goes a bit foggy, presumably from all the fury pulsating through my system. "Wow," I said out of shock. My mind felt numb. But coffee guy was on a roll and wasn't going to stop there. "Well, I guess you could mix a bunch of flavors too," he scoffed. The cashier apparently saw my unease. "Oh, don't worry about it," he said. "He's been crabby all day." But it was too late. I was already plotting my revenge. Fucking coffee guy was going down.

Waiting for my drink, I became unusually quiet, my eyes glazed over as I thought of what I should have said and what I could still say. Hank noticed and told me to breathe. He gave me some arm rubs. "How rude," I kept whispering. It's all I could muster. I was having fantasies of throwing coffee on coffee guy and asking for the manager as loud as coffee guy had coffee-shamed me. I couldn't get off it. I understood that a split shot required a little extra personalization, but wasn't personalization what coffee drinks were all about? Besides, it could have been worse for him. I could have ordered a white chocolate/raspberry, split shot, quad, lungo, skinny, wet cappuccino. He would have really blown a fuse.

As he handed me my drink, he nearly spit the words, "Here's your laaaaatte." That was all the goading I needed. "Gee, thanks, that seemed so difficult for you," I barked, flames in my eyes. We stared each other down. "But you know, I guess I'd feel the same if all I did was make coffee all day." He said nothing, and Hank hurried me out. I don't know why I said what I did. It wasn't particularly mean, even though I said it with pure hatred. And it's not like my life is any more exciting at the moment. But I felt I had to say something, and it was all I could think of. Even so, as we left, Hank said, "Hon, you're stooping to his level."

Then it hit me. That's how wars start. That's the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in a nutshell. You hurt me, so I'm going to think you're scum and am going to hurt you right back. Coffee guy may have deserved it, but did I really have to react? Does the world need more reacting?

Enter episode ten: "The Baby Shower." Carrie's period is a no-show at the same time she and the gals get invited to a baby shower in a wealthy Connecticut suburb. Their newly-pregnant, once-hard-core-party-gal friend, Laney, announces that she is naming her girl Shayla, Charlotte's secret baby name--the one Charlotte was saving for her future daughter and had told Laney in confidence back in the day. Laney then criticizes the gals for never growing up, even though she misses her former lifestyle. After having watched kids smear chocolate cake on the carpet and scream at their coddling mothers, the women leave in a huff and decide they will be cool mothers or no mothers at all. They won't give up their lives or careers like these women. They won't pick their children over their men. Most importantly, of course, they won't move out of the city. Laney decides that the friends live in a dream world without any meaningful responsibilities. The girls decide that Laney's a bitch.

There it is again. Reaction. The friends react to Laney and what they see at the shower. Laney reacts to what she was and no longer can be--a single girl in the Big Apple. It seems we decide what kind of people we want to be by seeing other people who are what we don't want or can't be. We judge. We don't care who we are, as long as we're not them. And that makes them bad.

When I worked in customer service at a flower shop, I once spent 15 minutes with a elderly female customer picking out the right ribbon for a poinsettia. I didn't mind. I'm particular, so I can appreciate it in other people. For me, there are too types of customers--easy ones and interesting ones. But to coffee guy at Pablo's, I was just plain annoying. Maybe he thinks people should stick to plain lattes and not be so high-maintenance. Maybe he thinks decaf-coffee drinkers are losers. Maybe he hates women. So he scoffed at me. And I scoffed right back. How could anyone treat a customer--or anybody, really--like that? We warred. We butted. Sadly, it happens every day, on both minute levels and unimaginably large ones.

But maybe that's just how it has to be. We form our place in the world by deciding what we like and what we don't. Sometimes we change over time and learn to see some things from different perspectives. But even if we allow for an open mind, there are parts of ourselves that are too ingrained to change--like my desire for politeness and coffee guy's desire for something else. To him, I'm difficult. To me, he's rude. We can hide these small judgements, but when we've had a long day of making complicated coffee drinks or are PMS-ing and tired of feeling like an unemployed idiot, they come out. And they turn us all into babies.

Maybe Hank was right (he often is). Maybe I didn't have to react. Maybe I could have just taken a deep breath, accepted my differences with coffee guy, and enjoyed my latte. I should practice that, I suppose. Maybe this is a start. But it's never easy, not for any of us. I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 9: Vibrators and Vanity Couplings

"Save Me Some Sand, Jamaica" is today's ensemble. As the weather gets colder and the job hunt fiercer, my thoughts turn to 80-degree days where my only responsibility is to keep my tan even. I'll take another mojito, please.

I think the SATC writers came up with the title of the episode, "The Turtle and the Hare," before actually figuring it out. This is the only rational explanation for this installment, which casually throws together two completely different issues--vibrators and settling for mates we don't love. After ten minutes of being mildly confused about how these two things are even loosely related (and I had already seen it--imagine Hank), I was laughing so hard at the dialogue that I no longer cared.

The Rabbit--a high-tech pleasure device to which "the Hare" in the title refers--takes center stage. Miranda is hooked and encourages the women to buy this marvel of sexual exploration. Charlotte, fearful of the toy until she sees that it's pink, gets hooked until her friends stage an intervention that forces her back into the dating world. As usual, Carrie doesn't have much interest and remains a skeptical bystander, aloofly gathering info for her column. Samantha has no need for a toy when she has the real thing--and lots of it.

I don't have much to say about vibrators. Boring, I know. I've never used one, but I can see why women do. If I were single, I'd definitely buy one. Maybe I still will one day. They could be quite fun even within a relationship. But I'm not at the point of needing one yet. Nuff said. Be jealous if you must.

Now, the issue of settling. We've probably all been in unions where it seems our mate loves us more than we love him. Often it's the other way around. In the dating quest to find equality in love, there's a lot of teeter-tottering that goes on. Somebody always has the higher ground. Even within long-term, vibrant relationships, equal love between partners at all times seems like a tall order. Besides, how can there ever be an exact equality of something that can't be measured?

That said, when things are really uneven, you feel it. I was once in a relationship with a man who seemed to adore me. We'll call him Travis. Travis addressed me as "La mia princepessa" (he was learning Italian and very proud of it) and travelled to China with me on my independent study just so I wouldn't be alone. For whatever reason, I was always lukewarm and couldn't figure myself out. We had a lot of similar interests and studied the same thing at school. He was funny, smart, and kind of cute. But I just wasn't in love with him. In fact, when he put his hand on my leg, I always had to suppress my impulse to cringe.

When I expressed my doubts to my mother, she suggested I marry him and quit analyzing everything so much. I thought maybe she was right, so I kept dating him. After two and a half years, he wanted to ask me to marry him. I kept telling him to wait. I wasn't ready. That Christmas with my family, he pulled out a jewelry box in the middle of unwrapping presents. Everyone got quiet. Dad had just opened an oxygen machine, and, in a desperate grab for humor, I asked if I could borrow it. I knew I couldn't say yes. What the hell was I going to do? In the end, it was just a pair of earrings, and my heart resumed its normal pace.

That summer I went to visit my sister in Peru and cheated on Travis with a local artist. I decided to move to South America to be with him. It was terrible for Travis. While I felt angry at myself for hurting him, I knew that my biggest mistake was that I didn't break up with him sooner. I should have trusted myself and my doubts. The artist and I didn't work out (in a fair dose of karma, he broke up with me in an equally painful manner), but I'm thankful now for what happened. I needed to learn a lesson about myself and don't know that I could have learned it any other way. The lesson was simple: I needed to feel butterflies for someone for it to last.

I realize I'm not everyone. In some relationships, imbalance seems to work. Some people don't mind being the one who "loves more," and it's awful hard for the adored one to give up being adored. One woman in the episode says to Carrie, "Always marry a man who loves you more than you love him." Later, a startled Carry watches as Samantha turns to an investment banker with bad breath (nickname: "The Turtle"...ah, at last the title becomes clear) to satisfy her need to feel loved. Carrie herself contemplates an open marriage to Stanford, her best gay friend, not out of love but so they can share his inheritance. Things are all messed up, and it's all because of a vibrator. No wait, it's because of marrying for money.... No, unrequited love. No, well, anyway, they're messed up.

Carrie finally decides that she wants kids, so marrying the gay guy won't work. Besides, she loves Big. But is it reciprocated? That's her big worry. I guess the best we all can do is be responsible for ourselves. We can find someone we love and hope they love us back--just as much, a little less sometimes, a little more at others. Whatever as long as there's love.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 8: Threesomes

This is an exercise I like to call "An outfit a day keeps the blues away." Here's my first ensemble; we'll call it "Night at Bolero," because that's obviously so much more interesting than "Night at the Opera." All of the pieces are pulled from a mix of websites--modcloth.com (Thanks, B!), Aldo, Neiman Marcus, Victoria's Secret, etc., and that's just the beginning. What's more, nothing--except for a pair of shoes here and there--is over $200. When putting things together, I imagine I am Cher on Clueless and have a virtual closet at my fingertips. Of course, these clothes don't correspond to real pieces in my closet. Nevermind. It's almost just as fun this way. Let the dreaming begin. Now threesomes....

"How well do we ever know the people we sleep with?" says Charlotte.

I like this episode. It deals with the issue of human fantasies--well humanity, period--very honestly. All of the women have different takes on the threesome. Samantha is, of course, highly experienced. Carrie's never had time to consider it amidst her relationship struggles. She can't even stand the thought of Big's exes, much less someone else in their bed. Charlotte doesn't think blow jobs are proper, but she's suddenly willing to consider a threesome to please her new boyfriend. As for Miranda, she just wants the sexual validation of being attractive enough to be asked to participate in one.

I think it's safe to say that threesomes are one of the most common human fantasies. In some parts of the world, sharing partners, adding a guest, and other sexual combinations are quite normal activities. For example, there are over 20 clubs for swingers in Montreal, Canada. About every other guy whom I've dated has either had a threesome or fantasized about it. So what's the allure?

Proponents have their theories, and so does SATC. It adds spice to a relationship. It's a fantasy, and it's healthy to explore fantasies to keep them from growing into full-blown sexual obsessions. Heck, even Socrates would contribute some argument in favor of a threesome every now and then, just as long as Eros wasn't allowed to take over the person's life. As for the show, Samantha, not inhibited by morality nor sentimentality (at least that's what she would have us believe), just does it for fun.

But are these arguments enough? Is there an underlying draw toward a threesome that expresses some deeper, unhealthy psychological desire within us all? This is Carrie's central preoccupation. By the end of the episode, she decides that the threesome is actually what keeps two people from nurturing intimacy between themselves. It provides an 'out,' a way to keep from fully putting one's heart and mind into the relationship. As she says, "The real allure of the threesome? That's easy. It's intimacy that's the bitch."

I've never had a threesome, and I never will. I consider myself a mature sexual adult and very much okay with my sexuality, desires, and fantasies in all their complexity. And a threesome has always been on an internal list of sexual escapades I think would be interesting. But that's all. Interesting. For me, a threesome is on par with sky diving and eating cow testicles. Sure, I could do them given the right circumstances. They might even be exhilarating in the moment. However, that doesn't mean I think they're good ideas.

What's more, like Carrie, I've always been in relationships. One relationship at a time has always been enough of a mystery and responsibility. Maybe if I had been single for most of my life, a manage a trois would have come up. But I wasn't, and it didn't. See, if you're in a relationship, threesomes are only okay if you're fine with the consequences, because there are always consequences. That's the part the fantasy doesn't take into account. If there is a deep love between two partners, the consequences could be disastrous. If I love someone, why would I really want to take a chance on f-ing that up? I prefer to spend energy trying to get closer to my mate. Sometimes I wish life were longer just for that.

I knew a couple once that had an open marriage. Maybe that's different than a threesome, but it's still sharing your guy or gal. One day, I was talking (okay, gossiping) with my hairdresser about the couple's lifestyle. She immediately said, "It will never last." I asked why and said that it seemed to work for them quite nicely. She said that humans aren't meant to share partners and that something was bound to happen to make the couple drift apart. For example, one of the two would meet and fall in love with someone else. Not two months later, that very thing happened. The girl left her husband for another man, one with whom she just had a "better connection." Go figure. How can you have a good connection with your partner if you're actively working to destroy it or keep it weak?

I'm not saying being curious about threesomes is bad. In fact, I think it's completely normal. After all, human sexuality is a very powerful thing, and thank heavens for that. But we have a choice about where to direct that sexuality. For me at least, I want a threesome to be something that remains an oddity. I want to wake up each morning knowing that I'm doing what I can to further my knowledge of my partner, enjoying and appreciating him for everything he is.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 7: Monogamy. Marriage. Misunderstandings.

When someone announces their engagement, I always have mixed feelings. Part of me wants to give the couple a bear hug, share in the craziness of wedding plans and nerves, and buy a bunch of kitchen stuff. And part of me wants to get the hell out of there. Good luck. Bon voyage. Hope you buck the trend of divorce.

There is something about a wedding that is very scary. I'm just going to say it. Maybe that way, it will seem less scary. I think it scares Bela too, because he just growled.

Let me clarify. Monogamy is great. It seems easy to be committed to one person at a time--even more so if you really love him. It's like Carry said: "Seeing another man would be like trying to fit another outfit into an already over-stuffed suitcase." Exactly, except I always find room for another outfit. I have never understood the folks who can date multiple people with equal levels of intimacy--cuddling and kissing, sharing dreams, etc. Conversely, if they don't feel much for the people, why are they seeing them at all?

Granted I've dove in way too fast with the wrong kind of guys without acknowledging that the alert level was sitting steadily at orange. There was a depressed Russian guy. After him, an alcoholic Peruvian artist. Most recently was a fellow with a chronic wandering eye, whom I thought it would be a good idea to re-date (bad idea, surprise). He somehow managed to give off just enough affection to keep me coming back for more. Believe you me, I did not go looking for these classic Prince Charmings; they just found me. But in each instance I gave it my all. My all or nothing, that's my motto. It's gotten me into a lot of trouble, but it's also gotten me Hank.

But even with my two-feet-in-and-soaking philosophy, whenever I watch this episode (probably about 5 times now), I feel sad when I should feel happy. When Big and Carrie get together at the end (Mr. Big implies he'll "stand still" with her, which, not to be spoiler for the non-SATC-obsessed, goes awry in a big way, no pun intended), that conflicting emotion thing happens. I think it's called confusion.

Engagements bring the same sensation. One side of me wants to shout, "Hurray!" It's what the two people want, and they seem so happy in their best moments. I just know it will all work out. The other side wants to kick (some of) them and shout, "What the hell is wrong with you? Don't you see that there are some big problems here?" (Dichotomies. They are so two-faced.) And I do it with my own relationships, always have. I see the good and the bad, the love and the struggle. Love always wins. And I think it should. But it makes for a hard road. And how do you know when it's too hard? (I think all romantics should be born with the answer to this question. It's our right.) How can relationships that are right be so flawed, and how ones that are flawed be so right?

But sometimes they are, even the really good ones. When I used to read relationship books (gave them up, like a person gives up cigarettes), they would always state, "No relationship is perfect." And it's true. What's perfect anyway? However, the hardest part--why the idea of marriage and of trusting one person for the rest of your life is so scary--is that it's so very hard to tell between the good eggs and the ones that are just a little too sour, between the people who will hopefully enhance your life and the ones who will make you want to die early, even if you have to ingest fire. And probably these opposing emotions comprise every relationship. And it makes the relationship alive. Could we even enjoy the peaceful times without the conflicts, however small? Some days it seems perfect, some days a bit lacking, and others a complete disaster. Heck sometimes it's the difference between a few hours.

That's what makes me sad about this episode. There are NO ANSWERS. And I like answers. Carrie is just doing her best with the information she has and the love she feels. Been there done that. It's not a guarantee for happiness or that anything will work out, but it's the best any of us can do. That's the bitch about being in love. We can only do our best.

In non-SATC news, I had another interview yesterday. My mom sent me this article about how difficult the job market is right now. I have to say I nearly cried reading it, because it's everything I'm going through. It felt good to know I'm not alone. Thanks, Mom. I'll send you a picture of me in my McDonald's uniform soon. Just kidding (sometimes you gotta clarify).

And I have thought of a brilliant, no BRILLIANT, plan to overcome my shopping tendencies. Whenever I feel like shopping online, I'm going to browse the selection and pick out my favorite things. Then, get ready for this. Don't wet your pants, though. Instead of adding them to my "shopping bag," I am immediately going to post them here! "Wow!" you are probably saying. And I don't blame you. Would you expect any less from the History Graduate of the Year? Now I just have to figure out how to post them...and I will have created the perfect antidote to accumulating massive credit card debt (oh wait, it's too late for that).

I am going to go grocery shopping, because we have no food. Then I will take Bela for a walk. My days are like crazy busy. I barely have time to shower and get dressed, much less write on this blog. So I have to get going. But stay tuned for Carrie and the girls discussing threesomes!

Hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 6: It's Important to Do What You Do

"This is not me. This is me reacting to your perception of me." Carrie

This fragment of SATC deals with secret sex--the great stuff you have with people you're embarrassed to introduce to your friends. Since I have only been in relationships, I really can't attest to knowing what this is about. (Why do I even bother writing about this show if I can't relate to it?) If you're attracted enough to someone to sleep with him, it seems you should think your friends and family will find him attractive enough too...and if they don't, who cares?! You're having great sex!

It must have been fun to sit around and come up with topics for the show. It's the one chance to think of all manner of bizarre issues concerning love. Obsessed with models? Great, one episode down. Can't live without blow jobs? Okay, we'll use that in season five. Thirty hilarious minutes on secret sex? The audience will love it. Probably because we've never had it. It's just so novel.

Hank thinks I write because it makes me feel like Carrie. Here I am alone on a Saturday night, writing on the couch, while Bela snores and chases who knows what in his dreams. It could be depressing. But because Carrie does it and is glamorous, so can I.

The truth is, I don't feel glamorous. I feel like facades are crumbling all around me. Even with the show.... I remember remarking to my sister about how much I love SJP's style. And she said, "You mean the style of the person who styles her?" Ouch. M's in show business. She knows all about this stuff, but I don't. And that's when it hit me. I have a really hard time telling the difference between reality and what goes on in my imagination--between what's real and what's just really convincing.

Maybe everyone has their obsessions. Mine are SATC, Victoria's Secret, and spicy food. Yay. Maybe there are more. I've had people say that you should make peace with them, laugh at them, even exploit them to make your footprint in the world a unique one. But in the end, maybe they're just sad. They lull us into an alternate reality that makes us feel great in the moment, but in the end leaves us the same people we have always been--the ones we have been trying to escape through our obsessions. And we better be okay with that.

But even if we were to get beyond trite fixations like Sunday football (don't look at me), mayonnaise (I know a girl who ate this on absolutely everything) and my SATC reruns and try to be real every minute of our lives, it seems like there's a whole vastness of larger obsessions. Some of them we might not even know about--like an obsession with cleanliness (if you see our house, you will know I obviously don't struggle with this one), being ambitious at work, or, what I fear may be one of mine, feeling morosely analytical about life.

That's why I never kept a journal for very long growing up. Why record all of my crazy thought patterns? Wasn't thinking them painful enough?

Just tonight, Hank asked me to go out with him and his study group friends. There might be wine there, he said, and we could chat when they weren't studying. Nothing sounded worse to me than tagging along with him to study. I mean how lame could I get? It's bad enough that I don't have other options to speak of, but I can't imagine sitting around with a bunch of med students letting them practice physicals on me--all while trying to make casual conversation? No way.

But who knows, it could have been fun. At least I would have breached the 1/2 square mile distance around our house and talked with other creatures besides Hank and Bela. I asked him to consider the reverse. Would he go to a fashion discussion group with me or a meeting about piano technique? He said sure, especially if he was lonely, was in a new town, and wanted to meet some friends. And I believed him. After saying, "Thanks, hon, but I'm okay here" with a smile and watching him leave, a larger worry set in. Is there something in me that opposes being happy?

It's like I'm always waiting for that perfect thing to come along to do the trick. First it was the perfect man, but he came. While I'm near blissful in the relationship realm, now it's the perfect career. Maybe I will be satisfied once I get a position writing for a fashion magazine, sign my first book deal, or design a beautiful formal wear line. Or maybe teaching English in the Peace Corp will make me feel at peace with myself at last. If not, perhaps once I have children, I'll feel whole. Or...Will there always be something missing? Always some reason I hold myself back from being happy????

I don't have the answers to these questions tonight. Maybe I never will. But I hope so.

I do know that it's time for a movie and a walk with the pup. Sometimes too much thinking makes the world a scary place. But it's nothing some fresh air, a warm brownie, and a cup of tea won't cure, and I plan to partake in all three. So goodnight for now. I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 5: Ah, Dating Twenty-Somethings...Wait, I'm Twenty-Something

The gang's big complaint is that the twenty-something man dating an older woman either thinks she's exotic, his mother, or just another good $%^&. Or there is the odd young chap like Skipper who just follows Miranda around like a lost puppy.

I think this is a bit of a stretch (as if SATC is supposed to be highly factual). Granted, I have usually dated older men. Actually I have ONLY dated older men. My first boyfriend in high school was a junior when I was a freshman. The year span seemed to increase as I got older. For a brief time at 21, I dated a 38-year-old with a 6-year-old girl. Once I realized that I was closer in age to her, it made things awkward. But all through my 20s, thirty-somethings have been my men of choice. I always scoffed at girls who dated younger guys, thinking they must be in it just for the sex. Inevitably, I thought, the guy would need to go off and get his testosterone fix by sleeping with another girl or slapping some guy's butt at a kegger.

Then Hank came along. When our mutual friend, Alan, told me about Hank, he mentioned a few facts. First, Hank was prematurely balding. Second, he was 24. I didn't care about the receding hairline, but having just turned 27 myself, the age thing freaked me out.

I mean, obviously it wouldn't work out, right? How could a 24-year-old feel serious about anything? I conveniently had forgotten my engagement at 21. Or maybe I hadn't. That had ended when I canceled the wedding two weeks before the big day. After that, my early twenties were a whirlwind of bad relationship decisions--mostly made because I wasn't mature enough to know myself and what I wanted and needed. Maybe that was what bothered me. When I was 24, I was a mess. So how could someone else be completely settled? Heck, I didn't even think I was mature at 27.

But I met Hank anyway, despite my foreboding, and have been amazed ever since. Maybe it's that Hank's mother is a few years older than his father--actually 3 years and a couple of months to be exact, the same as Hank and I--so he's used to the age difference. Or maybe it's that his family members have gotten married young (most before age 24), so that's just the time he thinks is right for settling down. But Hank says he knew he wanted to marry me the night we met, and I don't think it wasn't because he was a lost puppy. He had been alone for over a year before we met and had had plenty of time to get to know himself. No, it was because he's Hank.

Dating a younger guy does have its less amazing sides. Sure, he really doesn't know how to do laundry correctly (I'm sorry, hon, but it's true). He just throws it all together, which would be a travesty for my white capris (that is, if I let him touch them, which I don't). One of our first formal dates consisted of playing beer pong with his buddies. The fact that I played--and liked it--seemed like a sign from God that we were meant for each other. When he makes dinner, it's soup from a can. He claims it's because that's all he has time for. Otherwise he would make steak every night. No salad. Just steak.

But when it comes to real measures of maturity, Hank's way ahead of his older counterparts (and I know) and surely ahead of me. He'll say wise things like, "You'll find the job that's right for you." He's better at disciplining our dog than I'll ever be, and he already has an booming retirement account (I wouldn't even know where to start). Most importantly, he knows what he wants out of life. When I said I couldn't wait to have kids one day, he didn't say something like, "Yeah, I guess in like ten years" or (worse) "Yeah, I'd be ready for another one soon." Instead, he said he'd been waiting to have a baby since he was ten and only wanted to be married first. He was actually behind schedule, since he wanted one at 20. But, of course, he said, it would happen at the right time.

He's like a 24-year-old Confucius, and I'm the lost puppy.

Sometimes I remind him of our age difference just to get him going, you know play the age card. But he always trips me up. When he talks about dorm-room memories like they were yesterday (they were), I'll say, "You're so young." And he'll say, "So are you." He's right. But I have a feeling even if I was 40, he'd still say it, and I'd still feel like it was true.

Maybe most twenty-something guys don't have years of past relationship muck, a steady career, or amazing cooking skills. Maybe some of them really only want to have fun and play the field. But if you find that rare man who loves you and who you love, regardless of age, never let him go. Even if you have to do the laundry.