I keep telling myself that I want my future partner to own great shoes. He’d wear soft leather boots that match his casual demin shirt and dark jeans. In this vision my fella would have a savings account, be close to his mom, and probably own a black lab named Huck. He’d be put together, own his own place in the city, and smell like fresh towels. Basically, I want my partner to be a walking PNW cliché blended with Ryan Gosling blended with the non-douchey tech fellas I have come to know and love.
Here’s the truth. My type (my REAL type) will probably wear chacos. He will sport the same pair of pants that he’s had since 9th grade which is a) impressive because who is the same size as when they were 15?! B) terrible. No one wore good pants in high school. He MIGHT have a savings account, or he may have squandered his money to go on a 3-month backpacking trip through SE Asia. He actually knows how to build things, cook things, and could care less about owning a god damn thing linked to the technological world. He also owns a dog, a cat, 5 chickens and whatever other animal happens to find their way into his life.
My realization came when I was introduced to a very handsome fella on my trip to Austin. To other people this man (as my sister so kindly put it) was, “kind of fuzzy? Like a baby bird.” To me he was a handsome, dashing, charming individual who I would have gladly taken home if it wasn’t for the pain from my new tattoo, propensity to drink too much whiskey, and a bowl of queso with my name on it. Needless to say I batted my eyelashes, danced the two-step and ended the night with a wink and a drawn out hug.
The friend that introduced us had told me weeks before that he found my next fling. What can I say? The people I hold close to my heart know me better than I know myself. This new handsome stranger had been a vagabond world traveler, and now works on a farm. When I asked him for his story he threw down a quote from The Jerk, and knew Josh Ritter’s song about his hometown. He showed me pictures of baby chicken selfies, and has a tattoo of a hound dog on his inner arm (don’t worry y’all, he got it from one of the farmers in a barn.) He probably doesn’t shower regularly, and who knows if he owns a car or lives in an actual house. Nothing about this man was stable or reasonable or “grown up”, and I found myself twitterpated.
Looking back at my history of fellas I actually adore, they all fall into a similar category. They’re kind, selfless, confident, carefree men dedicated to environmentalism, music and living a simple life. Basically, they are a buncha granola loving hippies.
Those that know me well know that when I grow up I want to be a farmer. Someday, I want to unplug and run away. I want to own a cabin on a big plot of land and be known for growing the best swiss chard and rhubarb. I day dream about my escape to a life that involves early mornings with my sweet pea who will feed the chickens while I make French press coffee and scrambled eggs. I want a homemade life, and here I am slaving away on a computer for 14 hours a day. It’s no surprise that I become disenchanted with a lot of the city based/career oriented fellas. Deep down all I want to do is get my hands dirty and fall asleep in a lofted bed that smells like cedar and lemon. Pot calling the kettle black, I realize. I have become a city based technology fiend and yet SO much of my heart aches for simplicity.
Back to the point. I have loved (and still love) three men who fall into this category. These men were flings or friends, but they are the three folks that have nestled their way deep into the foundation of what makes me ME, and they’re staying there.
#1 is still my dream man. He’s the kind of fella that you think MIGHT be fictional because he oozes charm and marches to his own drum like no one I have ever met. We dated briefly and then the unfair beast that is timing stepped in and fucked everything up. I made him mixed tapes and he made homemade bread. He was experimental and insanely handsome in a bizarre and beautiful way. He bikes, climbs, kayaks, woodworks, cooks, love dogs, etc. etc. See? Not real.
I met #2 on the other side of the world. We sang Bob Dylan and Grateful Dead songs over the campfire and every single girl on the trip was in love with him. He had no idea, which was 10x more charming than the confident mother fuckers who strut like peacocks. He wore the same sweatshirt every day and is the reason I swoon over Carhartts (that ass though!) Being around him sucked all the stress out of any situation, and he made everything feel calm. I haven’t seen this beautiful man in 5+ years, after a drunk make out session on a rainy night in Portland, but he’ll always tug a few heartstrings. He’s the kind of fella you keep tabs on, just in case.
Lastly there’s my dear and darling #3. This man knows how I feel about him, but who doesn’t love a little ego boost every now and again? And if this blog is good for anything, it’s admitting too many personal details. You’re welcome folks, you’re welcome.
#3 is near and dear to my heart, and the only one of the three that is still in my life. We sass each other like nobody’s business and I give zero fucks about being charming around him. I would tell him most anything and know he’d give me valuable advice. One time we got drunk at a concert and admitted to having feelings for each other. We danced around them then, and I dance around them to this day. Whatever it means, we still drink beer, write letters, and two-step together, and I love knowing he’ll be in my life for the long haul. #3, like the other two, is the kind of person you want to be around. He’s passionate and dedicated to things that matter, and he moves through his life with intelligence and grace. That being said, he shuffles around in ill-fitting clothes, doesn’t know how to google ANYTHING, and is the epitome of a goober.
When it comes down to it, I want to end up with someone who is genuine and knows who they are. They have tinges of silliness and a desire to be outside whenever possible. Their confidence and self worth translates into not caring about personal appearance, and their life is judgment free. As someone who cares too much about what people think of me, I need someone to balance me out. Someone to remind me that life is so much bigger and more glorious than the day-to-day grind. So no, my dream man isn’t going to be the impeccably styled, handsome, wealthy city dweller who has their shit together (by society’s standards). My man will probably smell like earth and sweat. He’ll be down to drop responsibilities and go get lost in the woods for days on end. He will be the calm center in my anxious, over analytical brain. Together, we will find pleasure in simplicity and each other.
So what does this mean? Darling hippie boys… I’m ready for you.