The Men and the Boys: My First Boyfriend

I don't remember my first boyfriend because I was two years old. Yes I know it's a bit of a stretch to refer to him as "boyfriend," but strangely, this is the one I compare every other man to.

Put the prescription pad away and hear me out. My sister and I didn't have a stay at home mom, so we were shuffled off to babysitters. Oli is five years older than me and was already in school when I was still being a pain in the ass to non-English speaking women who were paid to take it. Mrs. Maria had taken care of Oli, she had taken care of our cousins, and she was now taking care of me. Babysitting was her day job, so while she was taking care of me she was also the charge of six or seven other little terrors whose parents, including mine, she had met during holiday masses at Church. You know, the Brat Pack.

I have brief recollections of my few years in Mrs. Maria's house, and only one of the little boy my mother always told me about. Zack was four years old and the first kid to arrive at the big house near the lake every morning; I was last. Moms tells me that every day without fail, Zack would be waiting at Mrs. Maria's door for me to arrive, fighting off all the other kids for his handful of candy that was my present. When I did get there, Zack would take me over to the couch, help me up, and we would sit there holding hands and sharing the candy.

I remember none of this. The one brief memory I do have of Zack is a little fair-haired boy singing to me, so I wouldn't be alone when I fell asleep.

Men of the world, listen up. I can't tell you how many times I've heard "What do women want? What do women want?" from friends and lovers alike, so my head spins into a Linda Blair. Read the above and pound it into your thick skulls this very valuable child's lesson, because this is what the hell women want: we want someone to fight for us, to appreciate us, to have eyes and smiles for us. Something as small as a Hershey bar will be cherished when done with love, and holding hands is a gift from the heart. We want for you to be glad when we're home, and we want to feel safe with you.

If you're saying, but I've DONE all that, I'm saying that if your love and actions are true and you're confident you've gone the distance and she still couldn't care less, then she's the wrong girl.

We women are not saints. There are manipulative bitches and gold diggers aplenty tainting our breed, but there are also many, many genuine articles. If your woman loves you and you make her your princess, she will treat you like the king that you are. End of story.

Of course later on all those grown up things like career, common goals, individuality yadda yadda come into play, but if you have the base, it's more than half the battle. In fact, it puts you an inch before the tape at the finish line.

I never saw the little boy from my childhood ever again, so the story remains pure nostalgia. Zack, I don't know what kind of peron you are or the man you've become, but I sincerely hope little has changed. You had a hell of a head start.