Wednesday, August 09, 2006
likes and dislikes
Blue Eyes needs my help tonight. "I hope you're not busy, 'cuz I really need you to help me out here, hun," he says. He's lost and running behind and needs a quick way to get to Tennessee. Aww, you're a psychotic, creepy married truck driver with a sexy voice - lemme kiss it and make it better. "If you find me a way down there, sweetheart, I might just have to fly home and kiss you," he says. Hrm. Ironic. If this were Manhattan, Blue Eyes would be a 38 year old Wall Street mastermind who'd seen a thing or two in his day, vacationing on Martha's Vineyard and slugging down scotch in Italian restaurants furnished in dark woods and dark leathers. He'd be married with kids at NYU and Princeton but what nobody would know is that he owes more money than he makes and goes further into credit card debt because his wife just needed that Prada bag and he'd rather her have it than to acknowledge the fact that he can't really afford it. What he wants, is to be good enough at what he does that he doesn't have to do much of it. He wants a true love, a Catholic kinda love - but he doesn't think his wife is in that kind of love - so he slugs his scotch and will gladly discuss literature with anyone willing to listen to him talk. I am the Katherine Hepburn to his Spencer Tracy. This is how I am. I could romanticize a sledge hammer. I'm a sucker for a man who may be in need. So much so, in fact, that I'll even project a completely imaginary need on him - if need be. With The Crush, I saw this need in him to be this moral, true-blue, perfect balance of boy and man with a solid future and no real direction on how to get there. I tried to be his navigator. It didn't work. Probably because I had no idea how to get anywhere myself. Two lost people never make for a good time. It's something in the eyes. Something that says, I'm slightly damaged but have the heart of a lion and it gets me every time. By "heart of a lion" I'm talking Johnny Cash - not Rocky Balboa. James Dean - not James Stewart. Robert Redford over Dustin Hoffman any day of the week. "I think I may have found the man of my dreams," says an email I get later in the night from a friend. The email comes with a match.com profile. I read through it almost envious that someone could put their likes and dislikes in nice, neat little sections. I would ramble on for days in a poor display of obvious neurosis. Enjoys coffee - but not percolated coffee or I will be running for the closest restroom - straight coffee is good. Espresso or poured from a French press. Interests - politics - but not like, really really politics. Not yet anyway. Like to keep it light and less complicated until I've read Howard Zinn's 'A People's History of the United States' - when I know more I'll get really really into politics. What am I looking for? Ever see Cary Grant in 'Holiday'? Robert Redford in 'Up Close & Personal' - except he dies...so not really Robert Redford in 'Up Close & Personal'... If dreams aren't real, then the term "man of my dreams" would mean a man that I can easily project my wants on. Right? Isn't that right? Man of my dreams means the man who I remember clearly but involves a night at the circus, an elephant and my 3rd grade teacher handing me a C+. Not real. Likes and dislikes sectioned off. That's real. I want the unreal. Break the sections and let them mesh. Quantify nothing. Sounds fantastic. Sounds edgy. Sounds adventurous. Sounds like a dream. "Hey hun," Blue Eyes says when he calls again. Ick. Back to reality.