There was the guy with red hair and big steaklike hands that walked with me arm in arm through Washington Square Park, kissed me on the stoop of my mother’s brownstone and said he wanted to be my boyfriend. Until our next walk, when he kept his hands to himself and said he meant boyfriend “in the theoretical sense of the word.”
The personal essay is often a free-wheeling device of self-expression. If you ever want to experiment with prose and with loosened structure, this is where you can do it. (If you're writing for a grade, though, make sure you understand what your instructor is looking for before you get too crazy!)
My ideal boyfriend would have to be intelligent because of course we will have conversation from and intellectual stimulating conversation is healthy for the brain sometime. If he cannot hold an intelligent conversation with you then there is a slim to none chance that you can be my boyfriend. I want to be able to talk to my boyfriend about things that talk real time to think about. We do not only have to talk about simple things like relationships, I want to be able to talk about important things like religion and politics. I just want to talk about meaningful maybe even life changing events.
Having compassion for your significant other is at the top of the list because when different life situations come about you should feel comfortable with sharing your inner most feelings with them as well as trusting that they will not judge you and put their best foot forward into helping you get through your situation. When you hurt, they should hurt. They should never push your feelings off to the side just because it is not their problem. My ideal boyfriend would just be the shoulder I need to cry on!
My ideal boyfriend may seem unrealistic, too perfect, and demanding but I do think someone like him is out there. I just have to have the patience and trust in God and wait for him to come to me. I do not want to lessen what I want or settle for anything less because then I will eventually become unhappy and miserable. My happiness is my main priority!
And that didn’t work out very well. One leaned across the table an hour into dinner and screamed: “You love me! I know you do!” Another stood outside my apartment with one finger on the buzzer and another covering the peephole, occasionally banging his fist, until he finally exhausted himself and left.
As you may recall from my earlier story , I came home to a very interesting surprise from my college boyfriend of 3 months. Who could have guessed that my surprise was not just roses and a box of chocolate, but something much more intriguing? How many of my sorority sisters could ever say they walked in on a in the making?
As I sat there looking my boyfriend over, it came to me that perhaps I should give him a bit more of a makeover. Maybe I was cut out for this bit after all!
On August 17, 2010, I got an e-mail from Facebook notifying me that I had received a message. It was from my ex-boyfriend’s mother. Its subject heading was “Goodbye from Nancy and Bill.” Nancy and Bill are my ex-boyfriend’s parents, though I’ve changed their names (and those of everyone else here). I opened the message with great curiosity and a little terror. Why was Nancy saying goodbye? Was she finally moving to Switzerland to live near her brother and his Japanese wife? Did she have a terminal illness? The message said:
He wrote back quickly: “Oh my god. Well, I was just hanging out with them and we kept on getting into these conversations (with my grandparents, too) about the Internet and virtual spaces and avatars. . . . Something must have reorganized in her thinking about her online presence. She means it when she says she remembers you with pleasure and fondness. By the way, I have moved to the Bay Area. I hope you are well.”
I was enjoying the blush on his cheeks as I stood up and led him into my bedroom. My room, mind you, was the ultimate picture of all things feminine and girly. This was the perfect room to turn my boyfriend into a pretty little bimbo girl. Resistance to my transformation of him was completely futile, and he knew it. I sat him down at my makeup table so he could look at himself in the large mirror while I sorted out a few things.
And tried to process it. And tried to remind myself that when we first met I thought he was an arrogant, presumptuous little man. I tried to think about my conversation with Steven. I tried to remember that I was actively seeking to practice some Zenlike form of nonattachment. I tried to remember that no one is my property and neither am I theirs, and so I should just enjoy the time we spend together, because in the end it’s our collected experiences that add up to a rich and fulfilling life. I tried to tell myself that I’m young, that this is the time to be casual, careless, lighthearted and fun; don’t ruin it.
The main result of Nancy’s Facebook rejection was to send me down memory lane in a pretty disconcerting way. My relationship with Noah had, I realized, ended two years before, to the day—on August 17, 2008—after a year and a half of dating that felt like fifty. The emotional acrobatics involved turned my heart into a hardened little gymnast with tiny tits and a leotard wedgie. Although I usually refer to him as “that interpretive dancer I dated,” Noah was, in fact, my best friend and arguably the only man I’ve ever truly loved.