I recently had a patient ask me, “so do you have a boyfriend?” And when I replied with, “nope, not yet,” I was actually a little surprised when she followed with, “well, what are you waiting for?” I know that she was being polite, trying to make small talk, and I appreciated it. But when I left her room, I kept thinking to myself, well what am I waiting for? I’m not getting any younger and I’m sure as hell not getting any skinnier, I thought as I debated re-downloading Bumble. But after harping on it most of the morning, I finally remembered exactly what is was I was waiting for:
I am waiting for the man who looks at me. When I’m talking, when I’m quiet, when I’m mad, when I’m sleeping. Who looks at me and wonders how he got so lucky, why I look so beautiful, how he could ever live without me.
I am waiting for the man who opens the car door. Who places his hand on the small of my back when we’re walking through a crowded place. Who takes my hand at the bar, on the sidewalk, at the grocery store, to say “you are mine”.
I am waiting for the man who is proud of the person I am and accepts me for everything that I am not. Who introduces me to his friends and his family with excitement, “this is her.”
I am waiting for the man who stops after a long day at his job to bring me home a bottle of wine and a block of cheese after a long day at mine.
I am waiting for a man who kisses my forehead, wraps his arms around my waist, pulls me into him between the covers in the middle of the night.
I am waiting for the man who makes me laugh, who makes me better, who makes me understand why I waited for so long and went through so much to find him.
I am waiting for a man who is kind to his mother, to his waiter, to his friends. Who will stand beside me through the darkness as faithfully as he would through the light.
I am waiting for a man who will always say “yes” to karaoke and to pizza and to “one more beer.”
I am waiting for the man who listens to me. Who remembers that I hate pepperoni on my pizza, that Carol is that bitch at the office who always wears those awful pants, and that pink tulips are my favorite flower but orchids may be a close second. Who listens because he cares what I have to say, even when it’s me bitching at him for not putting his dirty silverware in the dishwasher again.
I am waiting for the man who loves me. Who loves my bad habits, my bad language, my bad days. Who loves how I look when I first wake up, how I can’t dance and can hardly add. Who loves that I only know how to cook three recipes and only one of them is (kinda) good. Who loves who we are together, the way he feels when I’m with him, the way he feels when I am not. I am waiting for the man who doesn’t need to change me, or censor me, or fix me–because who I am is enough.
So what am I waiting for? I am waiting for this. It’s so worth the wait, friends.