There is a man in my life who likes me. He’s single and considerate and persistent, all of which are good qualities (especially the persistence, especially in my case). One night while I was working he popped in unannounced with a couple of tabloids for my entertainment. He grabbed two or three, because while he noticed my weakness for them, he didn’t know which ones I liked. He calls sometimes – not often enough to be labeled a stalker, but often enough to let me know he’s still interested.

A week after my surgery, he had flowers delivered to my house. I’m helpless against flowers, and normally a gesture such as that one would have caused me to swoon and immediately kiss the person responsible senseless. The card said that he was thinking of me, and hoping for a speedy recovery.

He’s a genuine, sweet man with the best of intentions. He’s the type to marry and raise a family and never take his wife for granted (or at least not usually). He works hard at the BioDiesel plant here in town, and he doesn’t smoke. He comes from a large, close-knit family of his own.

He stopped by the office last night to ask me to go to dinner on Valentine’s Day. I have to work, thank god, so I gave him that excuse instead of just telling him he doesn’t have the slightest chance with me. I don’t like hurting people’s feelings. I wish I could fall in love with him, or at the very least be madly turned on by him. The problem is, he excites me about as much as watching paint dry.

My sister says this is because I won’t give him a chance. She says I took note of the way he dresses and his balding head and dismissed him. I admit she’s right about the head thing; I like a man with hair, end of story. I’ve never been attracted to hairless types. It’s just who I am. As for the clothes, she’s wrong – I could care less that the guy wears Wranglers and Carhartts. She claims I want someone more stylish, like her husband. (Truthfully, I went shopping with him once, and it scared me how GOOD he was. He was quick, he knew just where to find the sale rack, and exactly what looked good on his tall, lean frame. I was amused & a little intimidated. I have never been that good at shopping). I’ve never cared what clothes someone wears. As long as he’s not filthy or patched together with duct tape, I say live and let live.

The Marine has a style similar to mine, but like Heidi’s husband, he’s also a better dresser than I am. Now that I’m thinking about it, most people are better dressers than me. I consider jeans and a sweatshirt acceptable for almost every occasion, I wear socks with my Keen sandals (PISS OFF, naysayers), and I consider throwing on my American Eagle khaki pants being “very dressed up”. But I’m getting way off track here.

The point I’m trying to make is, The Marine makes me laugh. He keeps me interested. I find him (and his dark hair) very sexy. I worry about what to say and what to wear when faced with seeing him. When faced with the sweet, genuine man who actually likes me and DOESN’T blow me off, I feel nothing. Except for a hopefulness that he’ll take a hint and give up on me and date a woman who wants nothing more than to settle down and be his wife.

I’m not wifely material. Heidi? Heidi is wifely material. She’s considerate and thoughtful and attacks dust and grime like they’re the enemy. She has GADS of love to pass around, absolute gads. Her dogs are a little spoiled and very happy, and I suspect her children (when she has them) will be the same.

I wish I could spend Valentine’s Day with the man I love, laughing and eating chocolate (or possibly whipped cream) and just BEING. I wish the Nice Guy could spend it with the woman he loves. I wish we could all, just for one day, eat conversation hearts until we’re sick and smile until our faces ache.