Hooking up with a perfect partner? Just imagine ...
WHY does perpetuating the species seem to hinge on hooking up with a person who inevitably has at least one major character flaw? Maybe it’s because if you stumbled upon someone who was absolutely perfect, you’d die.
But what if you lived? Like a dog chasing a car, would you even know what to do at the end of the chase?
What would I say to the perfect woman? “It’s nice to finally meet you.” The perfect woman’s response: “It’s nice to finally meet you, Andy.”
Already I’d begin looking for flaws: “I’m not sure someone who thinks so highly of herself that she calls herself the perfect woman would necessarily be the perfect woman in my book.”
“You’re absolutely right, Andy. I apologize for being so full of myself.”
Wait. Maybe she is perfect.
“That’s OK. After all, if you were full of somebody else, you’d be schizophrenic.”
(Her, laughing endlessly) “That is so clever.”
(Me, starting to melt) “So what’s your story?”
“Well, I’m 35, I graduated from the University of Wisconsin. But enough about me. I’m much more interested in you.”
“I appreciate your interest, but I don’t want to waste this article jabbering about me.”
“OK, let’s waste it jabbering about me.”
(Fully melting now) “You’re ... whimsical! Like Tina Fey. Or Meg Ryan.”
“Oh, I could never be like them.”
“And mildly insecure. I like that.”
“I like that you like that.”
“What do you do, besides being Ms. Right?”
“I’m a call girl.”
(Crushed) “Ohhh.... At least you work for a living.”
“Actually, I don’t have to work for a living. Last year, I won the lottery.”
(Intrigued) “Oh?”
“ ‘Course, most of the money I’ve already given to charity.”
(Semi-bummed) “Oh.”
“But I did invest a portion of the remaining $20 million in a state-of-the-art nursing home, where I call out numbers at the seniors’ bingo tournaments.”
(Relieved over her true “calling,” and true wealth) “Thank God. That’s really admirable. A little too admirable. What are you, some goody-two-shoes workaholic?”
“Oh no, I love to have fun. And I really love to eat.”
I’m disappointed.
“I could just eat and eat, and never put on any weight.”
Relieved.
“It’s really fun riding in a limo to an expensive restaurant.”
Disappointed.
“But I could have just as much fun at home watching TV.”
Relieved.
“As long as someone else controls the remote.”
More relieved.
“I’m sorry, I don’t usually talk this much.”
I think I could love this woman. “How come somebody like you wasn’t snatched up eons ago?” I’d wonder.
“Oh, Andy, you are so nice. But if I keep complimenting you, that gets boring. And I’m never boring. But I wouldn’t admit that, because then ... “
“You’d be pompous and annoying?”
“You are so perceptive! Oops, that’s another compliment.”
Finally, just to play devil’s advocate, I’d ask her if she thought there was such a thing as being too perfect. “No,” she’d purr. Which would reinforce the words of Joe E. Brown in “Some Like it Hot,” as I realized, “Nobody’s perfect.”