lily-in-rain:

I’ve always had a problem with quotes like this. In the words of a hypothetical, ideal universe where I’m lucky enough to find someone, I’ll explain why.

The man I could marry might use a shampoo that stinks up the shower so bad I need nose plugs. The man I could marry might prefer reading bloody, action based books with terrible writing and mediocre characterization; he might never touch the likes of The Great Gatsby. My husband could snore every night and fart at a whim, he might be a freak of neatness, or disorganized to the point that it defies even my scattered tendencies. He might always think he’s right to a level of astounding pretentiousness, he might always fight with me over the small stuff, or he might be so apathetic that I want him to scream at me. Maybe my future, beautiful husband is the picture of the American Republican, or, if I decide my politics lie in the more conservative spectrum, maybe he’s a bleeding heart liberal I want to shake sense into. And maybe, just maybe, my husband won’t be able to understand the point of Tumblr, or any of the internet communities of my youth.

But that same man is someone I could have a great conversation with, who hugs me from behind, who can make me laugh, and who really isn’t bad looking, not by my standards anyway. That same guy might like anime or The Graduate or beaches or traveling or writing or anything else. That same guy could prefer big dogs to lap dogs like me, he could speak a different language, he could care about the world. That same man, even if he can’t cook, prefers going out to eat anyway. My husband could watch basketball with me on a beat up couch while I edit manuscripts, and maybe he’ll take me out, just for the hell of it. Maybe he won’t mind that I swear all the time, maybe he’ll be just as bad. Maybe my husband won’t even get why I’m a writer, but he’ll appreciate and support me all the same.

Maybe, maybe, maybe, there are so many maybes, but in the end, my point stands: the perfect man as portrayed in “books” fails to understand the basics of human nature. After all, to love someone is to compromise, to learn and grow as individuals, to accept and celebrate the faults that make life so interesting and invaluable.

So, to those dear, premature, adolescent readers who no doubt bemoan the nonexistence of their fictional Romeos, who no doubt spend their waking hours writing phrases as silly as this, please do continue to lust after your fantasies. It leaves more real men for the rest of us.