Let’s talk about a man who adores popular culture.
Stripes. Uncle Buck. Breakfast Club. Ferris Bueller.
Let’s talk about the sort of man who tries to remake his own self-image in the vein of a John Candy family-man-wannabe.
The sort of man who idolized shows the likes of 7th Heaven and Dawson’s Creek, for their wholesomeness.
The sort of man who is stalled mentally at age 20 for good reason and pegs himself in the wrong generational cohort because it isn’t quite as cool.
The sort of man with an extensive collection of secrets.
The sort of man willing to lie about his age when convenient, as if age is a liability.
The sort of opportunist who presented himself as the height of virtue to a new younger friend, only to prey on her vulnerability during a psychotic crisis.
The sort of man who chooses Elton John’s “Love Songs” and the Sleepless in Seattle Soundtrack to play on repeat during echo assaults over a period of years.
The sort of man who pulled up the song “Never Saw Blue Like That,” in generating false intimacy.
The sort of man who really preferred to watch the likes of Dangerous Beauty and American Beauty and Se7en with his object of predation; the sort of man who fancied himself having his own version of a courtesan at one time.
The sort of man who curated scary movies to set the scene of predation, carefully choosing the tone for taking what he wanted later.
The sort of man who never actually achieved the family man status he aspired to because he prefers false power and predation to intimacy.
The sort of man who confuses status with accomplishment; who gave up on his personal development long ago because he didn’t understand how it works and didn’t see the point.
The sort of man who conflates entertainment and status, which help to pass the time, with meaning.
The sort of man who realizes late in life that personal growth eludes him.
The sort of man who needed to grandstand to a woman on SSDI at the height of his career.
A lifetime absent of the very substance that makes a life worth living must be exhausting, vividly terrifying— devastatingly void.
I’m sorry for him.
I married a man whose entertainment tastes are wide and varied and require far more intellectual depth than popularity in nature.
I married a man who has never once asked me to watch a scary movie.
I married a man who saw the predation before I did.
I married a man who finds meaning in holding my hand— he holds my hand at home and in public.
I married a man who naturally commands authority by elevating everyone around him.
I married a man who sacrificed his sleep night after night before workdays to tend to our three babies each, all night long.
I married a man who goes, without complaint, to check imaginary noises in the dark when I wake up afraid.
I married a man who refuses to fight back even when I try to pick a fight.
I married a man who creates romance in sitting in a park.
I married a man who tends to our children’s schoolwork and homework.
I married a man who attends as many of our children’s events as possible.
I married a man who makes it clear to work that family comes first.
I married a man who introduced me to all his friends and family as soon as possible.
I married a man who tells me the truth even when it is uncomfortable.
I married a man who, every November, knows what is coming and holds me through it.
Once upon a time, I chose between these two men.
And, instinctively, I chose the real man before I’d even met him in person.
