Mr. Almost Perfect

I admit, I have very high standards. My list of dealbreakers is very, very long. Too long. I'm working on being a bit more open-minded, which will have to wait until I move, because I never EVER date boys who are from my current location. Is my pickiness the reason I'm still single? I don't know, but it may be the reason why I haven't had a real, honest-to-goodness boyfriend in far too long. (Imaginary boyfriends don't count.)

A few months ago, I met Mr. Almost Perfect. He was cute. He was funny. No, HILARIOUS. He was sweet. He was a European Jim Halpert. And we were sitting on the world's most isolated inhabited island together. It seemed too good to be true, which, of course, it was. Mr. Almost Perfect was a smoker.

Now, I really don't think Mr. Almost Perfect and I ever could have lived happily ever after. First of all, we carry different passports, making it geographically impossible. But it had been awhile, so I thought maybe the Rapa Nui gods had reached down and given me a sack full of fresh guapo points and a weekend fling on the remotest of remote islands was exactly what I needed. Sadly, it was not to be.

I tried to tell myself that smoking is a silly dealbreaker when simply looking for a little weekend fun, but I wasn't very convincing. I mean, who wants to kiss an ashtray? Granted, he didn't exactly make the moves on me, but I also nagged him every time he lit up, so I can't imagine that was a very attractive quality. When he told me that he had only recently started the habit up again, I was tempted to reply, "Well then, why don't you go home, quit, then CALL ME."

When it was time to part ways, I wasn't all that upset about it. At least I know that the good guys are out there, somewhere. Jim Halpert does exist. You just may have to go to the ends of the earth to find him.