When you hear people say God has a sense of humor, I can attest. He, or she (shout to all my uber Feminist friends) is the real joker around these parts.
Men, I don’t know if you really understand this, but most little girls create an image of their dream guy in their mind at a young age. For some, it’s a fleeting image and they end up with the exact opposite. But for others, like me, hold every man we meet to this “dream” like standard we constructed in our heads. He is perfection personified. He knows what we love & lives to make us smile. We picture him opening a box with a new puppy in it on Christmas, we picture him throwing a football in the backyard with our 2.5 kids and white picket fence, we picture jumping into his arms as he swings us around a field full of daisies.
Usually he looks similar to our childhood star obsession, ken doll, or oddly enough reminds us of our own fathers. Weird, but true. I have no factual information but I have a lot of girl friends.
Me, let me tell you about mine.
It’s true. Mine, he’s at least taller than 6’2″. About 200–225lbs. Healthy, athletic build. Brown skin. Light Eyes are a +. (This is solely for my children’s sake).
So cut to, single me. Painfully single me. Actually, I’m lying. I’m comfortably single me for the first ever but “painful” and “single” just go so well in a sentence together. I digress.
Back to me, comfortably single me. I was in Paris and my best friend was getting married the next day. It was only right that on the first night, I celebrate! 1… 2… 3… 4… 5… glasses of wine in, I decided it was time to switch to champagne. 2… 4…. 6…. glasses of champagne in, I decided who cares what I drink anymore. There was 1942, Hennessy, and something else dark I’m sure I shouldn’t have touched.
We were at one of the best clubs in Paris, (shouts to Charaf and Le Pompon) and the whole room just stopped. I saw my Ken doll walk in the room. He was perfect.
Approximately 6’4″, 220lbs, dressed straight out of GQ and knew every word to whatever Future song was on at the moment.
I grabbed both of my friends by their “cheechas.” (For the non-Hispanic folks like me, my Latina girlfriends taught me that word for the little fat around your waist or hips.)
“Look at him!!!!”
Then that moment hit, that moment when you try to erase the drunk look on your face, then adjust your disheveled outfit. You slyly wipe the eyeliner or mascara that started running when you were sweating. Last, but not least, the moment of truth: your “Dougie” turns into a slight two step. All of a sudden you remember what it is to be a prim & proper woman.
For those people who actually know me, you know that didn’t last long. I think the DJ threw on Rihanna “Needed Me” and I jumped back up. All of a sudden I’m getting back in formation and “jujuing” on that beat.
Halfway through “hittin the folks” my Ken doll walks up, slides behind me and whispers something in my ear.
I could not understand one word he said. Not a thing, no bonjour, no nothing. I tilted my head, smiled and said a brief prayer. “I don’t speak French. Do you speak English?.”
“Oh. I don’t speak English good.”
Wait, what? No!! No. No. No. I just saw him rap every word in “Jumpman.” I couldn’t have been that drunk.
I flashed back to every ballet class of my life, I tried to pull any french word I knew out of my arsenal. I thought about the times my mom begged me to take French class instead of Spanish class and kicked myself. I reached for my phone and my google translate app, but my phone was dead. I looked up at my man G-O-D and laughed.
My dream guy was standing in front of me, hands around my waist, ready to run off and I didn’t even know how to say CALL ME in French. We tried to go back and forth for a few minutes but between the language barrier and loud music it was a fail. We resorted to the language we obviously both knew best, body language. We danced, danced to fast songs, danced to slow songs, I think we may have even kept dancing when the music went off. It is safe to say I think I may have danced my limbs off that night.
At the end of the night we exchanged info. Why, you ask? Listen to me, you do not let your dream guy pass you by, even if he doesn’t speak English. Come on, how expensive could Rosetta Stone be? I’m a fast learner.