Knights in Shining Armor Come in All Shapes, Sizes

We had popped a witty little comedy, the kind the critics tend to go for, into the VCR. “Green Card,” it’s called.

It was, uh . . . cute.

Early on in this movie it became apparent that the heroine, drop-dead gorgeous with dark, wavy hair and a pout, was earnest-- way too earnest.

She was seeing a fellow horticulturist, a pasty-looking fellow who didn’t eat meat.

That’s all you need to know about this guy, except for the fact that he was wearing some sort of vest in all his scenes.

“Aren’t you glad that I’m not like that?” my husband says, being rather earnest himself.

(“He cares about what he puts in his body,” the heroine had just said by way of defending the pasty-faced fellow to her new house guest, a French illegal alien with a police record who not only ate meat, but also smoked and had a big, hairy gut.)

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” I say to my beloved.

(It is worth noting here that my husband had just come home from the supermarket with the yearbook edition of “Guns & Ammo” magazine. Could I make this up?

(This way when I glance over to find him leafing through a glossy periodical featuring locker room pinups of Glocks and Uzis and casually inquire, “What the hell is that ?” the magazine’s $6.95 purchase price is instantly worth, oh, at least $7.50 to my husband.)

“Because, you know, you could have easily ended up with someone like that,” my husband says to me as he gestures toward the TV screen.

(At this point in the movie, our heroine finds herself uncomfortably wrestling with her growing ambiguity over the preachy vegetarian.

(It was a powerful scene. She glanced at the framed photograph of the two of them on her dresser and the look that crossed her face seemed to say, “Hmm. Did I forget to pick up that trail mix at the store yesterday?”)

So I say to my husband: “What do you mean by that ?”

“You know, if I hadn’t rescued you,” he says. “I’m your link to the streets.”

Now, let me say right here that this is a common male fantasy. It goes by various names. The rescue theory. The shining knight theory. The I-bet-that-guy-you-used-to-date-is-working-at-some-toll-booth theory.

I understand this. Women all over the world understand this, always have.

Research done by renowned Egyptologists indicates that one of the favorite pastimes of the ancient pharaohs was to go through their wives’ old photo albums and laughingly point out the sideburns and geeky grins of the wives’ past suitors.

Ha ha ha. Oh what a good laugh the pharaohs would get! Made them feel like some sort of god , I bet.

(Meantime, the French illegal alien on the little screen is demonstrating a beguilingly sensitive side. During an otherwise extremely uptight dinner party in a shockingly lavish New York penthouse, he offers an impromptu piano composition with lyrics (in French) featuring poor inner-city children.

(The look that crosses the heroine’s face seems to say: “I know I’m a vegetarian, but in your case, I might make an exception.”)

Anyway, like those ancient Egyptian wives, women today know better than to trample upon a harmless male empowerment fantasy when the result might be a dangerous plunge in self-esteem.

We all know that low self-esteem can be especially dangerous to men. It can lead to the purchase of red Corvettes or, say, a sudden fascination with do-it-yourself home improvement projects. (The acquisition of a tool belt is a particularly onerous sign.)

So what I’m saying here is that you just want to go along. No sense in getting all worked up if you value the man in your life.

“Yeah, right,” I tell my husband. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

“ What ?” he says.

“What, what ?” I say.

“You know,” he says.

(By now, our movie heroine is clearly smitten with the stocky French meat-eater. Only she, of course, is too earnest to realize this. Then in a dramatic denouement , the hairy carnivore, while pretending to be asleep on the couch, jumps up and surprises Mr. Potato Head, who was badly bungling an attempt to seduce our heroine.

(“Cucumber!” the Frenchman shouts at his rival, leaving the viewing audience to assume that this vegetable epithet must indeed be pretty powerful in a language that equates “my little cabbage head” with “my good-time babe.”)

“So what are you saying?” my husband says.

“What, saying ? I’m not saying,” I respond.

(Now the movie is hurtling right along. The strangely indignant vegan asks our heroine if she is really married (!) to this seemingly uncouth foreigner. She says that she is, although “it’s not what you think.”

(Well, pretty soon the INS is on to the fraudulent marriage and the oddly engaging alien is being deported. But wait! Our earnest heroine (having finally ditched the cuke) meets up with the madcap Frenchman once again. They embrace. We know it’s love!)

So, see, life really can be like the movies.

“You’re absolutely right,” I tell my husband. “Thank you for bringing a certain verite into my life.”

Vive la difference. Or something to that effect.