The Man of My Dreams?

I rarely covet a live-in boyfriend. Frankly, the idea sort of horrifies me. But sometimes I think it might be nice.

Tonight is one of those times. I have this big, painful bump on my butt. I’m not sure if it’s an ingrown hair, or a Coumadin-enhanced bruise, or what. If I had a boyfriend, I’d make him look at it. As it stands, though, I’m really not comfortable asking even my closest friends to take a look at my left buttcheek and tell me what they think.

The whole hospital thing would have been a good time to have a hubby too. To start with, maybe he would have had cool domestic partner insurance. Barring that, he could at least have moved my car so I could have skipped the parking ticket I got the night I went in. He might even have brought me jammies and done other little things I didn’t feel like asking anyone else to do (even though I know they would have).

But none of this is really sufficient inspiration to go out searching for the man of my dreams, especially if it might mean having to live in the same house with him, engage in conversation when I’m not in the mood, wait to get into the shower and then realize there’s no more hot water, or (God forbid) have to consider traveling with a companion.

I guess I’ll stay single for a while longer…