When I was a kid, my dream woman is a half-Asian, half-Colombian gymnast with a degree in culinary arts who is a die hard fan of the N.Y.Giants. She had an English accent and a Richard Pryor sense of humor. In my child-like imagination, she was out there. I just needed to be in the right coffee shop, in the right city, at the right time. She'd come in and we'd lock eyes. Fireworks would go off in my head and privates. She'd wink, and I'd give a smooth up-nod and say something clever like "Took you long enough." And we'd laugh. There would be passion. And great food. And gymnastics.
Right. The dream.
The reality is that I got older. And a little wiser, perhaps. Waiting for that butterfly-inducing romantic comedy moment was tossed aside with my aspirations of space travel and ninja training. I met elderly people who had been married longer than I have been alive, and I listened to their stories. My grandparents met in a drug store in Virginia, back in 1953. Grandpa was single, Grandma was engaged. He persued, she shied as a betrothed woman should. They didn't see each other for months. Grandma's wedding was on the horizon, and grandpa went for it. Grandma relented. She came clean and broke off the engagement. Two months later, she and grandpa were married. They were together, inseparably, for 60 years before grandpa passed last year. The other guy probably thought grandma was his dream girl.
So now I guess my dream girl is a woman who'll stick around, even when somebody as undeniably suave as gramps comes along and tries to sweep her away.