It was early spring, late afternoon, a couple of years ago and I was having beers and burgers with some girlfriends. It was warm enough that we sat on the patio outside where we ate and drank and talked about boys.
I was the youngest in the group — still a few months shy of my 30th birthday and conversation soon turned to the challenge of finding a good man before we all died alone with a bunch of cats in the living room and stale cereal in the cabinet.
“I don’t understand why it’s so hard,” I said, “I just want someone who’s funny and charming and kind and gracious and creative and ambitious and smart. Curly hair, glasses and dimples don’t hurt either,” I added.
My friend Meg immediately said she knew the perfect guy for me — that he was everything on my list.
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