A few years back… not so long ago, heaven and earth erupted into a major celebration with the news of your impending adventure into this very time and space. You see, someone like you doesn’t come along all that often… in fact, there’s never been a single one like you, nor is there ever ANY possibility that another will come again. You’re an Angel among us. Someone, whose eyes see what no others will EVER see, whose ears hear what no others will EVER hear, and whose perspective and feelings will NEVER, ever be duplicated. Without YOU, the Universe, and ALL THAT IS, would be sadly less than it is.  It's a new day.  What will choose to do with it?

–TUT

I am a connoisseur of my own neuroses.  Sort of a self help junkie – so you’d probably think that I’ve got it all (if not most of it) figured out by now.  You’d be wrong.  The more I delve into myself the more I find things to work on. 

While practicing my meditative state this past weekend I asked what I should do about a particular pattern that I seem to keep creating.  You’re probably familiar with the pattern by now because I look back and find that too many of my blog entries are centered on the same thing:  I bitch, piss, moan, and whine that I don’t have a boy friend.  Please don’t misinterpret that.  I DO have a partner, a wonderful one, and it’s not about trying to replace him with someone else, nor am I trying to cheat on Mark.  Absolutely not at all.  It has nothing to do with being physical or romantic.  It’s about adding to my experience, not subtracting or replacing that which is good.  I think it is a bit unfair to make one person completely responsible for your emotional and social support. 

The pattern seems to be that I meet someone, online or off, and I think “wow, he’s nice”.  Turns out he usually fits “the type” that tends to attract me in some way or another.  Perhaps I see something that I think is lacking in me?  I don’t know, but one of two things usually follow.  Either a) I come across REALLY strong and seem needy and dependant and the attraction goes right out the window or b) I play it real cool like and this is mistaken for indifference or apathy and the attraction just goes.  Either way, it doesn’t work well and I end up frustrated.  I have yet to find a happy medium.

The answer that came to me in my meditative state was as clear as clear could be.  I really love when this stuff works.  I was told to get the book down off the shelf and read it.  What book?  Uhhh, could you be a little more specific?  Last count I had like close to 900 books!  (This is not an exaggeration.  I actually have them numbered and card cataloged.  I just can’t seem to turn down a good book for ANY reason.  Actually, they don’t even have to be good — but never mind). 

The book in question was one that I had bought several years ago on a trip to DC entitled The Boyfriend Within by Brad Gooch.  Oh yeah, I’d forgotten that one.  I had purchased it, skimmed a couple of chapters and thought that I might like to read that some day.  Funny how those things work out. 

I can already hear the jokes coming asking if this book is a ‘one-handed manual’ – but there’s more to it than that.  The boyfriend within (BFW) is a concept not unlike traditions of wisdom from both Eastern and Western religion that merely state the simple truth that love, happiness, and respect come from within.  When we say that we are looking for a boyfriend, aren’t we really saying that we are looking for that warm feeling of happiness and contentment; that feeling of peace and inner satisfaction that comes from love?  The BFW is made up of our own inner qualities, considered and respected.  Self appreciation that is distinct from self centeredness.  That hot guy across the room (or in the chat room) is often just a mirror in which we are seeing some of our own best qualities; the qualities of the BFW. 

We imagine that the other guy is the one who is going to be caring, loving, understanding, protective, supporting, exciting; someone who will put their arm around us when we’re down, keep us entertained, and feeling a general sense of sexiness.  It’s one of those paradoxes in life that when we find the ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ guy inside of us, then he tends to manifest outside of us as the three dimensional good guy too.  If we can find the BFW, then even if life doesn’t provide a matching boyfriend without, then perhaps we won’t mind so much.  Nobody can teach you to love yourself.  You’ve got to do it.  You have to find the way.  And only when we truly love ourselves then we will find others who can truly love us in return.

My BFW is quiet and unassuming, but also self confident.  He is a little shy but passionate.  He’s warm and gentle and sometimes a bit arrogant and pretentious.  He certainly is stubborn.  He takes care of himself and he wants to take care of me.  He enjoys quiet times alone so we can talk.  He is spiritually grounded.  He is a hopeless romantic.  He is complex.  Just when I think I’ve finally found the core, I discover yet another layer to analyze and experience.  (I know, I know, he’s beginning to sound like a boy scout “obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent)  But he really is everything I want in a boyfriend without – he’s everything I want to be.  The trick is learning to love him and letting him love me.  I’ve been neglecting him lately and I think it’s time I rectify that situation.

From the window of the storm door, you can just make out his face.  His frail body supported by a walker that has a seat for frequent rests.  I turn the corner of the walk as he waves and beckons me to come in. 

The combination of his thin, white hair, big ears, and pale skin that is practically luminous gives him an air of something ethereal.  Perhaps he reminds me of a druid, I don’t know.  His pale, blue eyes light up behind horn-rimmed glasses when I shake his withered, frail hand and he smiles up to me broadly.  Mr. B wears a flannel shirt with a white undershirt, an ancient pair of dungarees, broad suspenders, and black tie up shoes.  When the weather is nice, he sometimes rides his scooter around town, but lately, he’s fallen off his scooter a few times so it sits parked on the front porch. 

The list is always a small square of paper consisting of the essentials spelled out in faded typeset.  Today, it is milk, orange juice, tapioca pudding, canned soup, eggs, and Little Debbie snack cakes.  I take thirty dollars and head off to the local Save-A-Lot grocery store.  It takes less than one half of an hour.

What takes up the afternoon is the time spent afterward.  We sit at an old wooden kitchen table and my efforts are rewarded with a cup of tepid instant coffee.  We sometimes spend the time flipping through one of the many photo albums devoted to his cats.  They occupy an entire shelf in the bookcase and show with extensive documentation each and every aspect of their lives. 

Mr. B’s raspy, faint voice is sometimes difficult for me to hear just as 86 years have made it difficult for him to hear me, but yet we talk about the troubles in the economy, the war, how the President has screwed up our country – all very current and up to date topics.  Mr. B’s physical health may be in decline but his mind is incredibly sharp.  We also reminisce about the depression, WWII, what it meant to grow up in Hermann, and his job at the shoe factory.  We talk about all sorts of things. 

It’s true that I really don’t have many friends.  I've never been one of the cool kids or a popular guy.  I guess I’m just not that likable.  But Mr. B is my friend and I like him a lot.  In fact, I think he’s a fascinating man.  He always has a smile to give you and is always very pleasant to be with.  I strive to be more like him.  We never get too old for role models and mentors.  

Last week, when I returned from the grocery store, Mr. B sat slumped over on the sofa with one of his cats purring quietly on his lap.  He had just returned from a round of chemotherapy and his deep snoring told me that he was indeed exhausted.  I put the perishables in the refrigerator and left him a note with the receipt and change on the kitchen table. 

I hope he feels a little better this week.