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