It seems that the vogue name for romance (translation: marrying types) is currently “Paul.” Three (count ‘em) of my gal pals have met men named Paul in the last two years, and guess what? Every single one of them asked my friends to get married. When did Paul become so attractive and where was I when this happened?
I knew two boys named Paul growing up. The first was part of my figure-skating carpool. He talked incessantly. He knew every make and model of car that we passed on that 20-minute twice-daily drive. Hearing him discuss the virtues of V8 engines only made me think of juice. He squeezed the very last ounce of patience I owned in those prepubescent years. When I saw him at my 30-year high school reunion, I swear he picked up in the middle of the sentence he’d left off with back in 1971. Being in the driver’s seat (finally), I turned around and politely drove myself across the room.
Figure skater Paul M. should in no way be confused with Paul S., who stole my teenage heart in high school. He promptly recycled it and gave it to some chick named Trina whom I never forgave. Being older and (somewhat) wiser now, I know better. The remote control belongs to me when it comes to men who suddenly switch channels. I’m the closest thing to “pay-per-view” when it comes to dating today.
My recently wed friends have had much better luck with Paul than I have. Their Pauls are kind, sensitive, funny and committed. Mine were just plain aPauling.
You might not think this has anything to do with what I’m writing about, but let me give you a little sidebar. In my lifetime, I have run into (not literally, mind you) Ringo Starr on three different occasions, in three different countries during three different decades. Each time, there was a kind of “aha” feeling and nonverbal exchange that was communicated through our eyes.
Unfortunately, mine were saying that I was hoping for McCartney.
I hear he’s getting married. Again.
Just not to me.