In the early 50s, as my child’s mind expanded with my foray into adolescence, it very naturally began to sculpt a model of its perfect woman. Most males do that, I suppose (at least it used to seem that way), and often they base that ideal mate on someone who has influenced them along the way—mother, grandmother, aunt, teacher, neighbor. In those days, remember, we had no TV, and movies were a sometimes thing. My little home town had two movie theaters, each of which usually showed only one feature for several days in a row. Not blessed with unlimited funds, I had to be judicious in choosing which ones to see, and between those deep, meaningful, boring adult allegorical dramas and the two-gun, shoot-em-up, adventuresome cowboy westerns, the decision was simple for me. Cowboy movies aren’t famous for their female idols; at least they weren’t back in the 50s, so I didn’t see many glamorous female movie stars.

For a landlocked kid in the Ohio Valley, the rarest, most captivating of females, and the most exotic and alluring, was the South Seas Island maiden. You know, the Dorothy Lamour type, Maimiti from Mutiny on the Bounty, smooth, warm, tan skin and the long, dark, wavy hair . . . the kind of hair you could get lost in. Almond-shaped eyes alternately flashing with fire and promising unimaginable ecstasies, mysteries, torrid memories to escape the cold of old age with a smile on my face no one would understand. Hibiscus over her ear . . . optional, since I wasn’t sure of the symbolism . . . left ear said she’s unattached, right ear she’s spoken for—or was it the other way around? . . . white meant something, and red meant something else, but how was I to know. Exotic was exotic, and that was it.

As my data bank widened and my understanding grew more sophisticated, I provided her with a variety of guises and mannerisms and costumes. She had to be able to walk purposefully with a steady, businesslike stride when necessary; but she also had to be able to glide across a floor as if riding on a cushion of air, her feet invisible under a floral-patterned hoop skirt, slender, her graceful brown forearms smooth, tapered columns reaching out from the gathered, cinched sleeves of her peasant blouse. Her neck . . . long and smooth . . , but only her throat could be seen, the rest hidden by that luxurious dark hair falling in aromatic waves across her shoulders all the way down to her waist. Her throat highlighted by a simple but elegant pendant, perhaps a silver crucifix, or even better, a large, mysterious black pearl on a rope chain.

This woman would be beautiful, but quite unaware of her beauty, oblivious to the effect it would have on men. She would be by nature warm and passionate, but at the same time compassionate, the power of her emotions constant through the entire range from total abandonment in lovemaking to total concentration in caring for an injured child or a wounded animal. She would be strong but gentle, decisive but tolerant, principled but understanding. Her intellect would be powerful, her tongue sharp, her wit quick. Enigmatic, spontaneous, inscrutable, clever, agile, skilled, and just a little bit dangerous when crossed; this would be my soul mate.

My dark-eyed tropical flower would not simply emulate class but exude it. She would not imitate maturity, but embody it. Her passion would not be misconstrued as violence or lack of self-discipline, but as the natural expression of love of life. There would be no laziness, but leisure; no snobbery, just self-control; a face, not a composition; a person . . . not a projection.

Over the years she evolved like a new species of orchid, organically, from my classmates, from poems, from movies, from stories, from borrowed ideas, from dreams, from Plato’s plane of perfect forms . . . my own Galatea, my personal Helen of Troy, my perfect dream girl. I looked for her in each new place I found myself, and like most young men, encountered suspiciously tempting imitations of her in various exciting places—the barrios of Los Angeles, the bistros of San Francisco, the luaus of Hawaii, the shrines of Japan, the shanties of Guam—often nearly convincing myself that they were close enough. And then finally, at the perfect time in my life, through a chance encounter, more like a cosmic fate, really, I found her.

At first it was touch-and-go whether we’d be compatible. To paraphrase Groucho, it didn’t seem logical for the perfect woman to have anything to do with somebody like me. What could I offer her? But, it happened. It happened slowly, completely, magnificently. And it’s worked for over 45 years . . . fun years, full years, satisfying years, productive years, exciting years. One of my favorite pastimes was to walk beside her along boulevards where the shops had glass fronts, watching our reflections striding along with us, my pride bursting my chest to be seen with such a creature, and regularly reminding her that it was our sacred duty to reproduce and populate the world with little copies of us. Damn! La dolce vita.

She’s in the kitchen at this moment, at the sink, her hair piled up on her head and full of that coloring goo to hide the gray; oils and emollients smeared on her face to soften the wrinkles; thick glasses perched on her nose to augment the failing eyesight; reminders from her dentist stacked on the table in her room listing the work her teeth need; a heating pad with massage motors draped on her chair to soothe the growing collection of aches and pains in her neck and back; a worn-out duster hanging from her shoulders to camouflage her expanding waistline; a collection of prescription and over-the-counter medications in the bathroom to deal with the lengthening list of time’s ravages—mainly the sputtering thyroid, frequent and debilitating migraines, macular degeneration, and a pack of disloyal organs. She doesn’t hear well, and she forgets more things than she likes to admit. She has trouble sleeping, her heart has been hiccuping, and her joints ache more often and deeply than in years past. When the world crowds her, when morons exasperate her, when work overwhelms her, she normally holds her tongue, although she can strike like a cornered viper, usually in my direction as a vent or release mechanism.

But . . . anyone who meets her still likes her . . . little kids like her . . . dogs and cats like her . . . and when God meets her, He’ll like her too, I’m sure.

And she’s still my dream girl.

---Eros Total