Sometimes I wonder how long it will take for Prince Charming to show up. Sometimes I don't wonder at all, like when I'm drooling over beefy cable hunks with my girlfriends. Hunks like Crixus, Spartacus, and Gannicus. In my fantasies, I am Slutticus.
At least, if Charming doesn't get here before May 21st, I feel comforted knowing I'll go out in a blaze of manless rapture. But if by chance we're all still here after Saturday, and if by chance I'm still single many, many, MANY years into the future, when I'm an old fartesse and gravity is the only thing having its way with me, I imagine my dating and relationship criteria will change. Just a tad. For instance, I figure when I'm 85, my ideal mate should come with:
- A "handicapped" tag dangling from the rearview mirror of his golf cart. If I'm 85, I want curb service. Speaking of which . . .
- A home on the range near Luby's. A quickie will be a zippy trip to the buffet so I can gum the nutless waldorf. Speaking of which . . .
- Real teeth. Someone's got to help me chew my jerky--and like it! Speaking of which . . .
- A sense of humor for when we both fall down and can't get up. And pee our pants cuz we're laughing so hard. And have to be rescued by people one-quarter our age. Speaking of which . . .
- Good posture. Stooping is unattractive (versus schtooping, which is, of course, AWE-tractive). Speaking of which . . .
- Endless RX of Viagra – unless he's King of the World without it. In which case, giddyup! Speaking of which . . .
- Cowboy boots. I don't care how old we are, we are regularly cuttin' a rug. Speaking of which . . .
- His own hair. Or a beautiful bald head. Both are preferable to the off-kilter wiglets I've seen. Speaking of which . . .
- Poor eyesight. The older I get, the worse my man's eyesight needs to be because . . . because . . . Um . . . Speaking of which . . .
- A good memory. Somebody's gotta remember why he fell in love with me, every day for the rest of my life.