Recently, I read the following from a supposedly sane and well-balanced young woman:
“I want to marry the man who gets more excited about my birthday than I do.”
“I want a man who plans little surprises to make my eyes light up.”
“I want a man who never treats my joy as an inconvenience.”
“I want a man who asks how my day is and actually waits for the answer.”
“I want a man who celebrates my wins louder than anyone else.”
“I want a man who is proud of me on the days I’m not proud of myself.”
“I want a man who knows I like my coffee sweet.”
“I want a man who warms up the car while I tie my shoes.”
“I want a man who hears me talk about my dreams and then turns them into plans.”
“I want a man who chooses ‘us’ even when life gets loud.”
“I want a man who makes ordinary moments feel like magic.”
That wish list drew a lot of negative commentary. Of course, wish lists are often impractical, but the impractical ones are usually materially oriented. This one demands a fantasy creature for a mate. But, as my favorite late-night TV philosopher has said, wait: there’s more.
The fantasy mate is expected to deliver a fantasy existence as well.
I can only speak for myself, but I’m unaware of anyone who enjoys a magical life. Even the very rich have fairly ordinary lives. Granted that they may do less housework than the rest of us. Even so they rise in the morning, spend their days dealing with the necessities of their lives, retire to bed in the evening, sleep through the night, and – if they’re really fortunate – rise the next day to do it again.
And what on Earth is wrong with that?
Many may dream of a life filled with adventure, excitement, and reward:
I didn't want to go back to school, win, lose, or draw. I no longer gave a damn about three-car garages and swimming pools, nor any other status symbol or "security." There was no security in this world and only damn fools and mice thought there could be.
Somewhere back in the jungle I had shucked off all ambition of that sort. I had been shot at too many times and had lost interest in supermarkets and exurban subdivisions and tonight is the PTA supper don't forget dear you promised.
Oh, I wasn't about to hole up in a monastery. I still wanted—
What did I want?
I wanted a Roc's egg. I wanted a harem loaded with lovely odalisques less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels, the rust that never stained my sword. I wanted raw red gold in nuggets the size of your fist and feed that lousy claim jumper to the huskies! I wanted to get up feeling brisk and go out and break some lances, Then pick a likely wench for my droit du seigneur—I wanted to stand up to the Baron and dare him to touch my wench! I wanted to hear the purple water chuckling against the skin of the Nancy Lee in the cool of the morning watch and not another sound, nor any movement save the slow tilling of the wings of the albatross that had been pacing us the last thousand miles.
I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, "The game's afoot!" I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and the Lost Dauphin.
I wanted Prester John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be what they had promised me it was going to be—instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is.
...but such are dreams. Such are the inventions of professional fantasists. Were it otherwise, there’d be no market for fantasy.
Nobody promises anyone such an existence. A good thing, too. It would be next to impossible to deliver on such a promise.
Some soldiers sometimes have excitement-filled lives. For a few years, anyway. Ask them what it costs. Don’t forget to factor in those who paid the ultimate price.
Ordinary American life, with all its compromises, frustrations, and vicissitudes, is the best bargain going.
The dreams of young women are often extravagant. The young – both sexes – are like that. But there’s a shortage of unmarried handsome princes just now. (Please don’t demand a government program to address the shortfall!) And even the handsomest princes usually come unequipped with magical powers.
Time was, women – even young women – understood that. They aspired not to adventure, excitement, and the life of a fantasy princess, but to love, comfort, and security. They knew from the start that what they sought would demand work, prioritization of desires, and prudence in their choices. They thriller to the “demon lovers” they found between the covers of gaudily decorated paperbacks, just as contemporary American women – but they knew that between those covers was where they must remain.
It appears that something has gone wrong with the upbringings of young American women. I haven’t raised any myself, so rather than discourse further on it, or prescribe a method for its remediation, I believe I’ll stop here.
