FINDING MR.RIGHT
He wasn’t tall and he didn’t make a lot of money. His shoes, when he wasn’t wearing sneakers, were ugly brown nerdy boats. His clothes were boring and out of date, often ill-fitting.
I noticed all this much later, because when I first heard his voice on the phone, the sun came out and I turned my face to it and closed my eyes. He was relaxed and warm. We laughed a lot.
The first time we spoke was a Sunday afternoon in March. We made a date to meet in the city two weeks from the coming Tuesday. Before we met, we would speak several times, the last time from midnight to 4 a.m. the night before our date.
I had answered his ad with a letter which I didn’t mail for almost a month. I carried it around in my briefcase because while I still had the letter, anything was possible. Once I mailed it, I could be rejected, I could never hear from him, or he could turn out to be a dud.
We met near the information booth in Grand Central Terminal. I was nearly an hour late; the train was inexplicably delayed. These were pre-cell phone days. Once you were on the train, you were stuck. I got to Grand Central and ran to the information booth. No black-haired, green-eyed stranger in a black raincoat and briefcase. No one who fit his description. I had blown it. But I just couldn’t turn around and go back home. It was an hour train ride and I had so been looking forward to meeting this person whom I was sure I already knew.
After about 25 minutes, I suddenly saw a man in a tan raincoat with a wonderful sweet smile, a head of thick, curly, black hair, and knockout green eyes – with giant bags under them from no sleep the night before! We walked towards each other, grinning, and said hello. He asked if I wanted to have dinner and I said sure. We ended up walking. It was a lovely early spring evening. He was impressed I would walk instead of demanding a cab. I was impressed that he was so relaxed and wanted to talk and get to know me instead of trying to impress me about who he was and what he did.
We sat in a restaurant and began the dance of getting to know each other while trying to stay relaxed and real. I was shy and reserved. It was hard for me to look him in the eye. I contented myself with a few side glances and a lot of staring at hairy muscular arms, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Soon it was time to go. Waiting for a cab, we spontaneously hugged. When I dropped him at Penn Station, he didn’t have enough money for the cab and his train; I paid, and continued on to Grand Central. I sat in the train and for a solid hour I wondered what had just happened. Fantasy never meets reality. Reality may be better, but it is different. I didn’t know what I felt. Weird, awkward, off-put because he didn’t have enough money to get home; we had split dinner. But I left a message on his machine the next day saying that I’d had a really nice time and I’d like to get together again.
He lived in an un-cool place. A one bedroom apartment in an unattractive Long Island suburb. Its only saving grace was that it was near enough to the ocean so that we could take long walks on the boardwalk, often late at night.
He drove an old wreck of a car. His apartment was full of books and papers. He was working on his Ph.D. and also read widely. He worked as a social worker in a clinic. He was a vegetarian for moral reasons. And he was absolutely passionate about playing basketball. The first time I watched him play, I could not believe how aggressive and fast he was. I knew he was strong and in excellent shape. By 33, a lot of men start to show the first signs of decline. He had none of that. And he gave nothing up when he played.
Yet many people, especially the women he’d dated in the past, thought of him as not aggressive enough, too nice, not focused on making money, unstylish, not long-term relationship material.
Me? I knew I had struck gold. You only had to watch him play to know he could do anything that required enormous will and aggression. When he needed to build his practice to make more money, he did, steadily and unfailingly. When he wanted to make a book out of his thesis, he did, relentlessly. When I noticed that he liked certain clothing, I encouraged him to buy what he liked and I showed him how to put it together. He liked dressing well and raised his standards on what he wore. It had just never occurred to him to focus on it.
He’s still weak on the car thing. I may need to paint this on the dashboard: Use premium. Change oil every 3000 miles. He just doesn’t care – that much.
He has written about 5 books. He’s a consultant and a successful psychotherapist. He has a cashmere blazer he loves, and some really nice ties. His messy apartment has morphed into a smallish house with a lovely large library we built in place of a ramshackle garage, where his book collection – and his many interests – flourish. We never ever lack for interesting conversation. He takes great care of himself and has never been out of shape or overweight. He thinks I am a wonderful acupuncturist and is always calling me a true healer.
But best of all: He’s a really nice man. He helped raise my daughter who lived with us as a teenager and has come back to us many times for advice and nurturing. She knows he is completely there for her and will always tell her the truth. His marked inability to pass judgment on people is one of his greatest qualities. He simply does not see: race, religion, weight, economic or education level. He can’t describe what people look like most of the time; are they good-looking or unattractive, in shape or chubby, but he can sure tell you what is in their hearts.
For many women he’d be a walking deal-breaker. He can’t tell the heating system from the plumbing. He has no idea what a circuit breaker is (but if I ask him to move thirty 50-pound bags of topsoil into the back yard, he does it cheerfully). He can’t boil water (uh, no, he really can’t) but he is always available to lift the 22-pound turkey-plus-stuffing into the oven and will wait like an excited kid for it to be crisp and succulent. And he’s actually a very good assistant chef. I just have to get the lefty thing down, and stop handing utensils to his right hand.
He will calmly pick a dozen ticks off the cats, clean up vomit, dispose of spiders and other large crawly things with more than 4 legs. (I deal with mice, chipmunks, birds, snakes and anything in the animal kingdom.) He will also try to help anyone I ask him to, just because I asked.
If this sounds like a rose-colored life, it hasn’t been, at all. We have had some really tough times. There were even times when we thought we could not go on together. Money issues, my daughter’s very tough adolescence, my dad’s suicide, the deaths of several close friends, and a lot of general struggle as each of us have tried to make our way through lives which are uniquely our own and which are constantly unfolding in new ways. We’ve learned what is important and what to let go of. It’s not a smooth road, but it has its rewards. Getting in the car together to go to breakfast can feel like we’re off on an adventure, playing hooky. We know we’ll survive the money ups and downs and my daughter has turned into a lovely and wonderful 20-something.
How long has this been going on? 19 years. All because two people didn't approach relationships with a shopping list of must-haves and can't be’s. I look at the strained faces of single women – women with such high standards you can tell they're going to be single for a long time, and I feel lucky not to have believed those articles that tell you: You can judge a man just by looking at his shoes. Believe me, they don’t matter at all.
