Last night I had the biggest laugh of my life – that sort of laughter that you get when you’re alone and something really hilarious happens but nobody’s around to hear you, so you stifle your giggles and end up weeping instead. You see I was able to dig up some fragments of the history behind my “farmer and then some” fantasies. As a matter of fact, the definition of my “then some” is rather unambiguous – for it was explicitly written on notebook paper almost 8 years ago, during my younger days when I still believed in the existence of the perfect man.
I was going through the clutter in my room last night, searching for my copy of Wilde’s A Picture of Dorian Gray when I found one of my old journals. I have kept a journal since I was 13 – although the word “journal” has somewhat evolved into many different things: 1. Eight years of scribbling on notebooks or stationary pads, 2. Around 2 years of Microsoft word entries which I was fortunate enough to print out before my first laptop totally crashed, 3. About 18 months of writing (and whining) to a person I met online whose existence to me then was literally a huge question mark (this entity’s profile picture in Friendster during its glory days), some of which I was also able to print out after meticulously combing through sent boxes of my Yahoo and Friendster accounts, 4. This blog, which of course doesn’t really qualify as a real journal because this is really just all bullshit and plain fiction if you believe me, though I keep a good old notebook on the side for really intense emotional entries.Anyway. I was able to retrieve an old journal from way back 2002. And written on the last few pages, in my childish medical student's handwriting, among scribbles of clerkship monitoring schedules and Tolkien quotes, was the detailed description of my perfect man.
Here they are...
I read everything again and again, every word, every expletive or emphasized statement. And I laughed out loud and cried because it’s just too funny, too absurd, too impossible to even grasp. Because crazy though this list sounds, my 30-year old already cynical subconscious self still believes in the same list, the way I did 8 years ago when I first wrote it.
But the craziest, most ridiculous, creepiest, hair-raising part of all is the realization that this man exists!!! Based on my definition then and now, the perfect man actually lives and breathes, and he has a name, and a face (And a beautiful one at that. Whoa, that’s not even on the list)! Every word, every expletive or emphasized statement – God must have read my list way before I was even born, and created the man for me. I already found him. I know it's beyond belief. But my man is real! Yes, my perfect man is real!!!
Uhhmm, ok... that’s not exactly right. “The” man is real, but the word “my” is grossly wrong. Too bad. And this is even worse than not finding him at all.
What good is the perfect man, when he’s not yours? Sigh. Earth to Jean. Earth to Jean.
On the next page, after my perfect man, is a perfect admonition for my foolishness. It was a quotation I copied from one of Tolkien’s books. And it said:”There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after.”
Sigh. I guess there’s really no such thing as the perfect man after all. But then again, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with waiting. And while the waiting (and the loads and loads of praying) is on, this blog entry should serve as an ad - a desperate attempt to find him.
So, here goes...
Wanted: perfect man. Specifications: as above. No experience required. BTW, must love dogs. If interested in farming and living by the beach in a small quiet town for the rest of your retirement years, that would be a plus. Must know how to travel with autistics like me. Must be weird. And most importantly, must adore me.
If interested, please apply ASAP. Offer good while my eggs last. Contact me for details. Spread the word. =)