When you're young, you spend a lot of time dreaming up the perfect person. How they'll look, what they'll say, the romantic things they'll do for you and you alone. You create the perfect mate from scratch. A little Kirk Cameron, a little James Dean, a little David Cassidy for good measure. Never for a second do you doubt that the living embodiment of your dreams exists. He's real. He's out there somewhere. The world is your oyster. There's tons of fish in the sea. (Insert your favorite nautical metaphor here) It's just a matter of finding him. And the joy is in the search.
When you're old,...OK, old-er, you spend a lot of time revising that dream. You take what you've got and try to make it fit. You compromise. And not in a good way. So, he doesn't support gay marriage, believe in global warming, or recycle. At least he has his own apartment and pays for dinner. Sometimes. So, he was unfaithful. So, he texts so much you have to change your cell phone plan to accommodate his fear of actual one on one phone conversation. You decide you can live with that. You can live with lots of things. You surrender the fantasy. And you're surprised by how easily you give up the notion that perfection exists. You trade in your fishing pole for the shotgun and barrel. Easier, sure, but does it make for the best catch?