Imaginary Boyfriend

OK, so the whole 48-hour rule lasted less than a week, but that's a solid 5 days longer than any of my New Year's resolutions, so all in all I'd say I'm making improvement.

So, the Kelly-Girl went on a date last night. It was more of a spur-of-the-moment-hey-I'm-not-doing-anything-either-why-don't-we-get-a-bite-to-eat thing that did not involve any picking up or dropping off, just a quick meet and eat at a local tavern. It was nice, but more importantly served to remind me that I simply cannot date anyone more than 10 years younger than me, and preferably someone who does not call me "Dude" quite so much.

I am the first to admit that I am not terribly good at dating. I don't go out much, all of my friends are married, and I still cannot bring myself to take the e-Harmony plunge. To that end, this here clip of my all-time-favorite-lovable-lug Mr. Chris Farley pretty well sums up my mad skills/modus-operandi in the dating world...



Hilarious, yes, but sadly so very, very true.

Back in November, I got introduced via Facebook to a very nice friend of a friend. He's also divorced, has a whole passel of childrens, and is dreadfully funny. We hit it off swimmingly, exchanging emails, chatting in the little green-dot FB box--things moved slooooowly, but they were moving. He asked for my phone number, but oddly, never used it, and our communication never ventured outside of the FB world. Nonetheless, we met for lunch over Christmas, and I thought it went well--I did not crush a baked good, I didn't have anything spew from my nose, and I'm fairly certain I said nothing overtly offensive, but I've been wrong about that one before. Long story short, after a couple more weeks, he disappeared. Just gone. Ouch. Now, the Tommy-Boy-Kelly-Girl would have emailed him incessantly "Are you OK--did you get amnesia and subsequently kidnapped by Victor Kyriakos--could you possibly be trapped under something heavy?" But the new-fangled Kelly-Girl, albeit still confused, has somehow managed to just let it go. Somebody call Oprah--I think I've had a breakthrough!

It is situations like this that has reinforced my dedication to my Imaginary Boyfriends. These are men who I've never actually met, but I have an inexplicable affection for, and I love them dearly. My list of Imaginary Boyfriends has included David Cook from American Idol, Brendan Shanahan of the Red Wings (don't care if or who he plays for now--he never should have left the D), Maks from Dancing with the Stars, and number-one of all time, Mr. George Clooney. I also continue to carry a torch for the Starbucks Suit Guy, who is pretty much the only real-live person who is on the list but who is so strikingly handsome that I am rendered slack-jawed and mute in his very presence.

I enjoy the Imaginary Boyfriend, because he doesn't speak, so he can't disappoint me by not calling me when he says he will. We don't actually go anywhere, so he can't be stupid and insensitive and say something like "Open your own freakin' door." He is always well-groomed, never snappish or crabby, and thinks that I am the most fabulous creature that has ever walked the earth. Plus, he totally understands that "Wow, you look really good for someone your age" is not truly a compliment. Yes, he is perfect, save for the fact that he does not really exist.

Does my loyalty to my IBs hamper my dating life by placing unrealistic expectations on the actual human beings that I go out with? I can't say for certain, because, quite frankly there haven't been very many interested human beings on which to test that theory. Rather, I think my Imaginary Boyfriends all possess some quality or attribute that I would look for in a real-life partner, and that they serve to remind me of my needs and standards and that I should not compromise them.

So yeah, I'm going to hang onto my Imaginary Boyfriends for a little while longer--today we will watch Marquette basketball and go grocery shopping because they love it. And if anyone has a problem with that, well, that's just too friggin' bad, Dude.