A week before Christmas, we’re crammed with Christmas wishes, checking them twice, the naughty or the nice part. It is a seasonal splendor of a heart’s wish for Christmas.
I cannot remember no time in my life when an interesting man was not the object of my interests, if not search.
Unlike some women, I’ve never had the patience of an educator, nor the zeal of a reformer.
You see, I prefer the finished product: not a man incapable of growth, but one who has managed to acquire those perceptions, tastes and attitudes which consititute, to me, the measure of my man’s worth.
What was my yardstick? Well, in my younger days, my preliminary judgements were largely visual, elegance in appearance and manners, I believe that class is elegance and price gently influencing… the old of notion of refinement, a kind of carriage, a way of moving and dressing, the use of voice and hands, which proclaimed a being superior in perception and attainment, who doesn’t bludgeon sensibility and obliterate taste.
There should be a refinement of behavior that commensurates with the possession of money and comforts; to discriminate between healthy freedom and sick license, in his demeanor.
A man who has never been exposed to other societies cannot be interesting. I am speaking of a reasonable familiarity with foreign cities and peoples, art and customs.
For the wholeness of a man to me suggest, primarily, a refinement of the senses.
The eye that has not appreciated Michealangelo’s David in Florence or the Cathedral of Charters is not a sophisticated eye. The hand that has not felt the rough heat of an ancient wall in Sienna, or the sweating cold of Salzburg stein of beer is an innocent hand.
So are the fingers that have not traveled, in conscious and specific savoring, over the contours of many different women.
You will recognize this man across the room. Easy in his clothes, hand well-groomed, oh no, not manicured. He does not laugh loud or often. He looks directly at the woman he speaks to, but he is not missing others as they enter, a flick of the eyes does it. For in all ways, this man is not obvious. He would no more appear to examine a woman up, than he would move his lips while reading… his senses are trained and his reflexes quick. And how did he get that way? From experience, observation, and deduction…He is educated in life.
This man I wish for…
I do not mean the elegance of the Diplomat, nor French actors or Italian princes. They are not real enough.
He could simply be that boy next door, who would hold your hand with proper lightness, and look into your eyes just long enough to create surface tension — who, in a well modulated voice won’t rush you.
He makes a flattering show of savoring your intelligence (and if my intellectual efforts are at this disposal, why not every material resource I possess?) and is not overcome by Pinot Noir or long black eyelashes. He doesn’t beguile – his sophistry is natural. He knows that the ardent look can be more effective than a hasty grab. The amorous lurch is not a compliment to me.
How he lives, what he surrounds himself with is index enough of his charm or lack of it. Are there no classics on his bookshelves? Does his record cabinet bulge with rock or jazz but lack Bach, Verdi or Prokokiev? A simple man is a limited man. His heart maybe gold, but his company will be leaden.
I am beginning to think other women will find this, my wish of a man, as an urbane monster: effete, affected, immoral, snobbish even unreliable. Call it my romantic hubris.
He is certainly urbane, but with an appreciation of the natural world high in his category of perceptions.
A man unaware or unmoved by the sea is merely half alive. As for the imputed defects, I do not hold them as such.
Instead of effete, I would say civilized; instead of affected, effective; instead of immoral, curious; instead of snobbish, superior.
He is kind to those who are weak; generous to those who love him; ruthless to those who will order him around; and fierce to the arrogant.
For me, this is the man, I wish would fill my stockings this Christmas Eve. If only there was a Santa.
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E-mail Mylah at [email protected]
