I'm addicted to Facebook. Well, not really addicted just yet. I just signed up last week and before I knew it, I had 40 friends. That's more than my MySpace page that took months and months of friend-finding to accumulate just 30 friends! As I drove home this evening, I thought about all the people I'd lost touch with and their new boyfriends/girlfriends/wives/husbands and their $$-paying jobs and brand-new, single family homes. And had teeny tiny bouts of jealousy. Well, not so much jealousy as extreme curiosity that borderlines obsessiveness. The last time I had a bout of jealousy and whined about it, Jen looked me in the eyes and asked, "Why are you marrying Rick?" It caught me off guard, and she told me to remind myself why I was getting married at all. 'Cause I could play the comparison game until the cows come home, but all it did was make me feel dissatisfied with my life. Is the grass really greener on the other side?
On my way home, I thought about all the characteristics that could describe any man of any hetero couple. The ideal man who would be the trophy husband, fabulous arm candy to any woman who would be so lucky as to hook him. The epitome of maleness and the cliched definition of masculinity. This is obviously a social issue, so there's no right or wrong, but for the sake of my little comparison game, let's take each characteristic to the extreme stereotype. And, apologies for the likeness to those annoying email forwards. (And let's just call him my husband because I kind of really don't like the word "fiance".)
What My Husband is Not
My husband is not tall, dark and handsome; he has a baby face and big, brown puppy-dog eyes, and I never have to look up at him and feel inferior.
My husband is not the curly blonde, surfer-boy cutie; he has luscious, thick black hair, speaks intelligibly, and has a farmer's tan.
My husband is not poetic or romantic, hardly ever buys me flowers, and doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve; he holds my hand while we sleep and playfully pokes me in the ribs as I put on mascara, which shows me how much he cares.
My husband is not a muscular jock; his brain cells are intact, and he is drug-free.
My husband is not a drunk deadbeat; he respects himself and others, works hard, and uses alcohol socially.
My husband is not a successful lawyer, stock broker, or collections agent; he bends over backwards for his customers and then passively mocks them as soon as the door hits them on their way out.
My husband is not a rich mama's boy; he is a poor mama's boy, but knows that just because he's poor doesn't mean he has to act like it. And he honors both his mother and his father.
My husband is not a 4-year-college grad who participated in floor-cest and got drunk every weekend; he worked before high school, during high school, after high school, and learned the value of a dollar.
My husband is not an athlete; he is, in fact, flat-footed, and uses foot spray quite often to fight athlete's foot.
My husband does not yell, slam the door on his way out, or leave me in the middle of an argument; he is patient and tells me if he needs some time to organize his thoughts.
My husband is not a nerdy intellectual, does not know what Google Scholar is, and is not an expert on the computer; he lets me do the research, but he has endless vetoes and is in charge of the final decision.
My husband does not have to assert his Y-chromosome by abusing me physically or verbally; he is happy, secure, and unthreatened to step back and let me take control when I want.
My husband is not driven or ambitious; he will never be on-call, stay late at the office, or have insomnia from work stress.
My husband is not the exuberant, center-of-attention, life-of-the-party guy; he is a thoughtful host and can attentively sit through eight hours of marriage preparation class with 120 other people.
My husband is not a brand or label snob; he believes that you get what you pay for, so when his Kmart golf club breaks into two pieces, he does not throw a fit that everything that is crap is made in China.
My husband is not a renowned musician, tournament golfer, or professional stock car racer; he participates in these supplemental hobbies which contribute to his comprehensive knowledge, and they do not rule his life.
My husband is not great at cleaning or organizing; he makes a mean spaghetti and the best kind of homecooked meals (with love).
My husband did not buy me the extravagant 1-carat princess-cut diamond engagement ring that I demanded like a petulant child; he bought me an appropriate, demure oval tanzanite. On sale.
My husband is not (and does not do) any of these things, and that is why I love him. And that is why I'm marrying him.