The unvoiced thoughts and ideas of a septegenarian.


on March 1, 2012


Some writers suffer from writer’s block. They reach a point in a story and a fence goes up.  That’s not my problem.  My fingers have minds of their own and  just keep right on clicking away – endlessly. My problem is the unrealistic male protagonists I create.  Do you know any man who would say to a woman:

“What I want is for you to talk to me. Tell me about the little things. A shopping trip with your mother, your grandmother’s meatloaf, why the freckle on the back of your left had is shaped like a star…your favorite book, your first kiss, why your hair smells like spring rain, how you got the scar on your right knee…Tell me about your favorite teacher, your worst fear and your best dream. Tell me if you like pear-scented soap and strawberries , , ,  if you like the wind in your hair. Tell me if you’re afraid of elevators or bridges or airplanes…if you walk under ladders. And tell me, too, why your laugh sounds like Mozart to me and why your lips are like velvet and why the taste of them makes me crazy. Tell me.”

Highly  unlikely.  I suppose writing like that is based on my own fantasy. If  I put an ad in the personal column of newspapers saying “I need a man, “ I’d probably get hundreds of responses that said “You can have mine.”  No thanks. I have a very clear picture of the man I’d like to meet. I admit it’s too idealistic and isn’t likely to ever happen.  Still, optimist that I am, I cling to it like a child hangs on to a balloon.

The man I would like to meet would know what I mean when I say explore. He’d relish taking back roads rather than expressways and not shy away from new places. He’d be imaginative, intelligent, sensual,  reasonably attractive, physically fit, and smile at himself when he shaves. He would have a creative streak and be appreciative of creativity in others.

He would know the difference between a conversation and a monologue, between listening and hearing and would willingly share his dreams and regrets.  The sight of snow covered mountains would thrill him.  He’d like breakfast for two, walking on a beach or in a forest but would not be an exercise freak. He would not measure his worth in terms of things. Never would he refuse to light a fire in the fireplace for fear of letting cold air into the house.

It would be nice if he knew the difference between Elie Wiesel and Sidney Sheldon or Jackie Collins and Cynthia Ozick and never went anywhere without a book in hand or pocket.  I’d love it if he was passionate about something unfamiliar to me and was willing to share it or teach me something. His idea of travel might include anything from a football weekend away to a safari but he’d know how to decide in ten minutes and pack in fifteen. He’d be flexible, open-minded and willing to consider the views of others.

Politically he’d be rather liberal. Philosophically he’d believe in the uselessness of negative feelings, the value of family, and think of himself as someone holding a full cup. He’d be content with, and proud of, who he is.  He’d be openly affectionate, freely blow me a kiss across the room, and often offer a kiss or a hug. He’d believe in holding hands

We wouldn’t have much in common if the man I met wore sleeveless undershirts, had an NRA sticker on his car, bowled on Friday nights, subscribed to Field & Stream, worshiped his Harey Davidson,  couldn’t spell aphrodisiac, and thought that a gourmet meal was a hot dog and a six pack.

Where is he?

Julie Rose


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