In Celebration of Mr. Average

There are a lot of love stories out there beginning with, "Once upon a time." They end with, "...And they lived happily ever after." After all, isn't that what we all want? A perfect man, a perfect life? A perfect, never-ending finale to our love-life story? How about every woman's dream of the tall, handsome, Fabio-esque hero in romance novels who comes in there to sweep the heroine off of her feet. We all want that, right?

I hate to tell you this, ladies, but if you meet someone who looks like Fabio, any interest he's got in you could well involve picking your brain for fashion tips.

The truly good guys come in deceptive packaging. They're less than six feet tall. They're sometimes a bit pudgy or extra skinny. They wear glasses. They watch football or play Dungeons and Dragons. Sometimes they're nerdy. Sometimes they're balding. Sometimes they come attached to a big, sloppy, invasive dog (or two.) Sometimes they don't like your cat. Sometimes they do something stupid.

Real men of all types, even good guys, disagree with you now and then. They are vulnerable to serious injury in the region of their masculine pride. They read Playboy Magazine. They leave dirty socks on the floor. They hate shopping. They may buy a sofa you loath, and they can't understand why you don't love the moose-head motif as much as they do. They hang onto sweatshirts so tattered you wouldn't even use them to mop the floor.

Ask them to mop the floor, though - or do laundry or dishes - and suddenly Mister "I Am Invincible and Can Do Anything" becomes all but incapacitated. The computer wizard can't figure out the complex workings of your average dishwasher, which requires pushing exactly one button. The executive can't quite fathom the logistics of a five-item grocery shopping list, coming home with a six pack of his favorite beer but forgetting the sour cream and cheese for the tacos you're making.

Now that we've addressed such heinous shortcomings, let's look at the rest of the story.

These same guys - skinny, pudgy, glasses, nerdy, sports addicted, house-helpless and all, are the ones who will love you and really mean it.

Do I have your attention yet?

Thought so.

They won't hit you and then claim you asked for it. They won't isolate you from your family and friends. They won't cheat on you. Those things aren't love. They're abuse and should be your signal to run, and to keep running until you are well out of their reach. If the man in your life hits you, ever and for any reason, a police report is not negotiable. The same goes for kicking, slapping, pushing, twisting your arm, or any physical force he exhibits over you. Call the law as you're jogging any direction as long as it's away. His hitting you, despite what he tells you, is NEVER your fault. It is a choice that he makes, and he needs to deal with the consequences of that choice. If you're feeling guilty about calling for help, afraid he'll be arrested, stop the guilt. The life you save may be your own.

Genuinely good guys will never hit you. They will go to work every day and help to pay the bills. They will love you even if you gain a few pounds. They'll adore their kids and insist that a child really does need a puppy in order to be healthy and happy. They might need an occasional subtle prodding, but generally speaking they'll take you out for dinner on your anniversary. They'll defend you from hordes of spiders and other six-legged monsters, put air in the tires, take out the trash, and mow the lawn. If you have to be out of town on business, they might confess to sitting in your favorite chair because it smells like your perfume. They'll revel in the fact that you're their woman - not in the sense of ownership, but in the sense that you elect to be with them every day of their lives.

What's more, sooner or later even the most housework-challenged will likely figure out how to operate that dishwasher or washing machine. If you don't believe me, just wait until you come through the door, fresh out of the hospital with your firstborn son or daughter.

The funny thing is, if you take a good look around you, there are a lot more princes than there are frogs. They just don't arrive on your doorstep rich or model-handsome. The only six packs on them are likely full of something to drink on a Saturday night. They love things loud and messy, and you may find them looking lovingly at the latest Harley Davidson or (in my case) eighteen-wheeler.

When you really think about it, just how important is it to you that your guy be a football hero, a leather-clad bad boy or a bazillionaire?

My money (and my heart) are on the average guy. I ought to know. I married one. And I'm living happily ever after, day after day after day.