I have this friend, a lovely human being and a doggedly patient mother. Let’s call her Sarah.

Sarah manages to balance everything all at once with grace but remain just cluttered enough for the rest of us to be convinced she’s human. She’s into human rights, saving the planet, and causing chain reaction of joy in the people around her. As astoundingly wonderful as she is, though, I’m here to tell you about her husband. We’ll call him Vincent.

He is The Perfect Man. When I first met him, he clasped both my hands in his work-weathered hands, looked me so directly in the eyes that I felt faint. “I am so honored to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much. Any friend of Sarah’s is welcome in our home, anytime.” I had come over with another friend and her kids for a playdate that weaseled its way into the evening hours. It was a weekday. This man just walked in his front door, likely expecting dinner and time with his family. Instead, he got a houseful of women and children, and the resulting noise and chaos. Instead of doing the reasonable and understandable thing, retreating to quiet room to decompress, he says something to us about how hard it must be to be alone with small children all day, and offers his wife a long embrace and a quick shoulder massage. Then he strode off, more than a handful of toddlers in tow, to make us coffee and dinner. A dinner that wasn’t planned. I twiddled my idle hands like a new ex-smoker.

The rest of the evening, I was made nearly deaf and mute by his tallness, his easy way of moving. His wide smile, with teeth just imperfect enough to know that he hasn’t had them whitened, straightened, or otherwise tampered with. The way he gave his full attention to whoever he was speaking to. Everything about him, from his tousled hair to his worn leather house slippers, was genuine. Worn until comfortable. Beautiful. Sometime before dessert, I suddenly had the distinctive feeling that I should not be left alone with this man.

As time, and our friendship, proceeded, Vincent’s saint status never faltered. He took off work to attend every single prenatal appointment when she was pregnant and every single routine checkup for the kids. I learned that he loves dogs. Sarah and I became close, and talked at great lengths about our beliefs, pasts, presents, and futures. And as much as I hate to invalidate anyone’s troubles, I hereby officially state that her marital complaints were laughable. Really. I laughed when she told me. Out loud. Mostly they were stories of wife freaking, husband doing the double-hand clasp, deep-eyed confirmation of his love and patience. Wife calms. Repeat.

I know that most of you are thinking that every marriage has its deep, dark closets. That she wasn’t telling me everything. And I’m here to tell you that I’ve been frank. Asked the tough questions. Sarah’s not a hide-anything kind of lady. When I ask, she tells. I never have the feeling that she’s withholding. Here’s how one conversation went:

Me: Uh… so Vincent never does ANYTHING wrong?

Sarah: He doesn’t tell me when I’m being bitchy. He’s too patient.

Me: Uh… so he never has fought back when you argue with him. Not once?

Sarah: He doesn’t like conflict unless it’s necessary. It’s never been necessary, I guess.

Me: Uh…so what’s the very worst thing about him?

Sarah: Okay, there IS this one thing.

Me:

Sarah: All of a sudden, he’s been a little controlling.

Me:

Sarah: Well, I guess just with this one thing. He INSISTS on getting up in the middle of the night to feed the baby. Even though I’M the mother. Even though I WANT TO. He says he’s more efficient at it, and that I need to sleep more. The first time he did it, I was too mad to sleep. Ugh.

Me:

After cautiously consulting with a couple close mutual friends and finding their experiences to be the same, I realized some things.

One: I wouldn’t want to be with someone so perfect. Okay, maybe in moments of marital strife I fantasize about it, but how could a mere mortal keep up with such a partner? I’m perfectly, imperfectly happy with my sometimes-up, sometimes-down marriage.

Two: If Vincent was revealed to be a sociopath, psychopath, or self-aware robot, I would react to the news with a certain level of expectance. I’d be the one in the documentary years later: I always had a funny feeling about that guy.

After formulating conclusion number one, and assuming/fervently hoping that number two will be proven null and void, I have nothing but a big, warm pot of fuzzy feelings for Sarah, Vincent, and their advertisement-perfect family and life. No attraction. No jealousy. Only the good stuff. It’s exhausting to constantly compare our marriages, experiences, accomplishments, and lives to those of others. Most of the time, we see only what is presented publicly, which is bright, shiny, and a very small portion of reality. Other times, we are privy to it all, or at least to most of it. Either way, if we like what we see more than we like what we have, it’s a call to action. To take better care of ourselves. To work towards a life that is uniquely ours instead of one modeled after someone else’s. The rest will come.

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An amazing collection of bright women who somehow manage to work, play, parent and survive and write blog posts all at the same time. We are the BLUNTmoms, always honest, always direct and surprising hilarious.

2 Comments

  1. My husband is one of these guys. My friends and extended family call him Saint Insert His Name Here.

    I love him, and lust after him, like nobody’s business. But there is a lot of pressure that comes with being married to such a model of male perfection. There are plenty of times when I feel like I’m just flailing around like a moron in our marriage while he is just stoically standing there being awesome and sensible.

    All of that said, though: he’s hot. he’s smart. he’s considerate. he’s generous. he has an accent. he’s a good lay. so he’s worth it 🙂

  2. Sarah he’s Mexican right? (Says the woman married to a Mexican who is not quite saintly but damn close 😉

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