It seems as though we all spend our lives searching — for the perfect man (or woman if you’re a man and reading this), the perfect house, the perfect car, the perfect job, and the perfect pair of shoes (well, I search for the perfect pair of shoes, anyway) — in an endless, ceaseless hunt for what we think will make us happy, convinced that nothing is ever good enough. We choose to conveniently forget that nothing and nobody is perfect, and that seems to be our excuse for searching ever so relentlessly for what only exists in our minds. A man and a woman will always drive each other nuts, the house will eventually need new paint and plumbing, the car may suddenly die in the middle of the expressway, the boss may be the Devil in Prada (preferably Gucci in my case), and the shoes may cause the feet to sprout calluses on a weekly basis.
Why do we feel the need to search, when in the end, when we’ve gotten what we were looking so hard for, we realize that it’s really something else we want? We may suddenly feel that the walk-in closet still isn’t big enough, or wish that the car had a sunroof, or decide that the Manolo Blahnik pumps would probably have been more comfortable than the Jimmy Choos anyway, or look across the room at the boyfriend’s friend and realize who it is we really want to be with.
I never really went on the wild-goose chase, choosing instead to sit back and take whatever life threw at me, and yet nothing ever turned out the way I’d hoped. Most of the men cheated, the only one who didn’t was a controlling, overpossessive psychonut who still hasn’t quite gotten over himself, and God knows I’ll never wear the beige Enzo Angolinis again because the buckle on the right shoe gored my ankle. Does that mean it might be time for me to start looking for something, or someone, better, instead of being saddled with God’s outcasts? Or will the right man just walk up to me one day in the subway (if I’m ever in a subway) and say, “Excuse me, but is this seat taken?”
I know what I’m looking for. I’m looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other love.