Villanelle to Men

I was bookfacing and stopped to view a picture of my best friend's little brother (side note: wow, that's a lot of qualifiers). It was a picture of his stepson and daughter.  And he had a serene look on his face and an almost-smile. And it hit me: he is a man. A man. Somehow time has eroded and washed away our supposed to's and left us with who we are. And he is a blue collar worker, an ex-wanna-be rocker, and a father, you know, a man.

I love men. I love when they lose that sleek boyness and become men. I love their scratchy, stubbly chins. I love the crinkles at the corners of their eyes from too many late nights and so many smiles. I love their strength and the feeling of their arms; the sinew and muscle held in check under the surface and their skin. I especially love the feeling of being held in those arms. The feeling of their strength as it enshrouds you and obscures all of your weaknesses. I love that feeling. I imagine that their stalwartness can make the world better, can cure my ills, and can protect me in their everlasting strength.

And yet, they wouldn't have to have everlasting strength. They wouldn't have to be perfect or perfectly strong. I want a partner. That’s all I have ever wanted. And so that means I want to shoulder some of the load. And I want to share. Everything. I want to help make money for the roof over our heads and I want to help make the beds where we lay them. I want to take turns making dinner and washing dishes. I want that man that can lie on top of me or let me take the top in our ever twisting, loving dance.

Where is my lovable rogue, Nathan Fillion? Where is my grown up Luke Wilson? Or Aidan Quinn in Practical Magic (or god help me, Aidan Quinn in Desperately Seeking Susan)?

I know this sounds like urban legend. You know, I heard it from a friend whose friend's cousin says that she has a “Real Man.” But I believe they really exist even though I've never been in the same room with one that looks at me that way.  You know, that way.  The way Ben Stiller looks at Cameron Diaz at the end of There's Something About Mary. That determined look that lets you know you’re in for it. I feel like Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed - but without the hottie, Michael Vartan, to come give me a big wet one at the end and kiss me senseless.

I know this sounds like I live in fantasy - but real men do exist, don't they? They are not unicorns. I've seen my father be devoted to my mother, even when she was less than nice.  I have witnessed my uncles treating their wives with kindness, patience and love. I have heard of the elusive "Victor" who buoys up my beloved Jenny, The Bloggess, even though I haven't met him in person. It is true that one never knows what happens in someone else's relationship behind closed doors but I continue to believe. With all of my strength, I believe.

I love men. Men just don't love me. Not yet, anyway.

But all I need is one. One man, a man -- that's all I need.


**UPDATE** 7/26/13  4:53p

I didn't mention that I have another blog that you don't want to read either that talks about being fat, being unhealthy, being mentally ill and loving The Bloggess. That is where I've introduced The Bloggess and for those who do not know she is a lovely and tremendously funny blogger.  Her website is:  http://thebloggess.com/
And she can be found on Twitter and Facebook, too. So I'm just a fan, a mentally-ill internet semi-stalker.  Although I *did* meet her at a book signing once.  Also, I have like 3 copies of her book and I would give you one, but buy your own damn copy.

Oh, if for just shits and giggles you want to read my other blog it is: UnComfortableNess.