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I Have an Imaginary Boyfriend
I have an imaginary boyfriend. He may not snuggle with me at night, rub my feet after a long day at work, or listen to me rant and rave about my crappy day, but he’s there when I need him. When the sweaty obese guy at Office Max asks me out, or the cross-eyed butcher at Albertsons gets too familiar, my imaginary boyfriend is always there. Well, he’s not actually physically there, since he doesn’t exist—but as far as these unwanted suitors are concerned, he’s sitting at home in front of the TV, waiting for me to return with his printer ink and rib-eye steaks.
His name is Carl, and we’re quite serious. We’ve been together for many years now, ever since I was old enough to date. Let’s pretend you are a guy who’s interested in me. I am a people-pleaser, which means I don’t like to hurt your feelings, unless of course, you’re out to hurt mine. I think perhaps that my desire for attention from the opposite sex fuels this relationship with Carl, because if he exists and thus prevents your chances with me, you can still remain hopeful that Carl and I will break up. That way, I don’t have to be upfront and honest with you, which would have allowed you to write me off and move on to someone who might be better suited for you. Oh, no—I don’t want the admiration of any of my suitors to wane; I’d rather keep stringing you along. I’m insecure like that. But Carl doesn’t mind.
Carl and I have had our tough times and broken up before. In fact, during one of our off moments, I accepted a date with a guy who worked at the local garden store I frequented. He looked like LL Cool J and told me he was working to fund his way through architecture school. There’s nothing I like more than a hard-working boy from a blue-collar family who is working to better himself through an impressive education. Apparently, there is nothing he likes more than a gullible blonde who is willing to buy that kind of story. I should have guessed that he wasn’t too bright from his barrage of misspelled text messages. And it wasn’t even simple typos that we all do when texting—he added letters to words that didn’t belong. He did things like spell taking “takeing” and asked me if we were “going too the movies.”
I tried to withhold judgment until one day when I’d stopped by to buy some potting soil for new flowers I was planting. I wasn’t sure if I got enough bags, so I told him I might be coming back for more. An hour later, I got a text from him: “More soleil?” More soleil? Was he trying to be smart and cute, using the French word for sun? Would I like more sun? I was totally baffled until it hit me: He meant “More soil?” The fact that this guy had worked in a garden center for six years and couldn’t spell “soil” was the final straw for me. Suddenly, Carl and I were back together, and there was no second date with my LL Cool J look-alike. Carl can at least spell past a fifth-grade level.
Sadly though, as time passes, I see the end of Carl and me on the horizon. Of course, ideally, I would like to replace Carl with a real man, someone I can touch and talk to. But if I am to grow as a human being, I need to be able to let Carl go regardless. You see, Carl is really just an excuse to avoid setting boundaries. If I continue to use Carl as a buffer between me and an unwanted courter, then I inadvertently leave the door open and encourage undesired flirtation, because Carl is never around to stop it. The suitor continues to overstep boundaries that I never set. Their persistence makes me feel uncomfortable, but that is entirely my own fault, since apparently people can’t read minds. It’s up to me to establish the rules in terms of what kind of conduct I find inappropriate, because I can’t keep Carl around forever. As much of an asset as he’s been to me, it’s time to move on and grow up.
Besides, Carl never picked up the tab at dinner, planned anything for my birthday, or held me while I cried after a bad day. I’m beginning to wonder what I ever saw in him anyhow.