John and Me

My husband’s name is John Johnson.

My husband’s name is John Johnson for two reasons. First, I enjoy alliteration. And second, I know no one by this name.

My husband’s name is John Johnson. But the truth is, I’m not even married.

I suppose I do think about marriage quite a lot. Enough for me to transition from the childlike creation of imaginary friends to the more refined, adultish concoction of an imaginary husband. And John suits me just fine. He likes banana toast in the morning, and outdoor porches, and he smells like mahogany.

The thing is, John protects me from the other men. Or perhaps, rather, John protects the other men from me. Because I, like every other single female alive, like to daydream. About marriage. About dating. About men. And when I daydream, I tend to project my Disney fairytale ideals onto those men. In fact, I recreate an entire man in my mind, a man who loves Jesus and me and running and the Middle East and appreciates a good book now and then and listens well and speaks intentionally and hates divorce and wants to adopt and travel and likes pancakes for dinner. I recreate this man, and then I give him the name of a man I know. He could be someone I’ve barely met. He could be my best guy friend. Anyone I think may have one or more similarities to this “Disney” man. He may not like running, but oh! He likes pancakes. He is a potential.

And then I think I like the guy. I think I like him without realizing that I like who I’ve created him to be, that I haven’t given him a chance to be himself. That I haven’t given myself the chance to like his true self. I haven’t been fair. I haven’t been honest. I haven’t been real. I have succumbed to the female daydream that puts unrealistic expectations on men and destroys perfectly beautiful relationships.

And thus I’ve decided to marry John instead. He suits me just fine. Now, any time I feel the urge to daydream about marriage, I can picture John and me, rowing along a random flooded forest in the midst of thousands of white ducks, like in The Notebook. Anytime I think I like a guy, I can think about John and how he smells like mahogany and likes the Middle East, and I can project every ideal quality I have onto him until he goes to take his afternoon nap in my mind.

Once I have tucked him in and turned out his light, then maybe I can go on a date with a real man and actually give him the chance to teach me who he is.

And, maybe, I might just like what I find.