mr. perfect

Perhaps, some day, a man I don't know will come to my door. He will be tall enough and handsome with engaging eyes and a wonderful smile. He will bring me chocolate covered strawberries and a bouquet of pink, white, yellow and orange gerbera daisies (or ranunculuses if they are in season. and he won’t bring me red ones of either). He will be punny and witty and just dorky enough. He will appreciate me. And he won’t be perfect—he’ll be perfect for me. And upon locking eyes we will fall in love instantly and live happily ever after, in the style o' the fairy tale.

And I’ll ignore that whole creeped out feeling of why-did-he-know-what-to-bring and how-did-he-find-my house?!?

Right. So, that kind of stuff doesn’t happen. And if it happens to you, you should probably call the cops.

Dating isn’t that simple. It’s complicated. It has rules and exceptions and nuances. It’s a kind of dance, you know? And rarely do you know who’s leading. And that’s half the fun—because if it were so easy we wouldn’t enjoy it nearly as much. There’d be no more butterflies, no more cute stories of how people met at a coffee shop or a bar or church or through friends and no more first kisses, no more silly evenings, no more disastrous dates to laugh about later. No more fancy dinners or plays or sporting games. And most importantly, no more chase.

And though sometimes I wish I’d just suddenly figure it all out, I also know that there’s nothing like the chase. Nothing like a first kiss. And nothing like making eyes from across the room.

So for now, Mr. Perfect-for-me, I kindly request that you do not show up on my doorstep with my favorite things. I’d rather meet you somewhere else, thanks. And you’re going to have to work for it, ‘cause that’s the fun part.

~foxysavant