He was one of the good guys. The kind of good guy you wish for on evening stars, the guy who gets along with your parents, the guy I hoped for at every happy hour, every wedding, every subway stop. He smiled easily, offered warm hands and a decorated letterman’s jacket in the closet.
My girlfriends were atwitter long before Twitter and wed long before that. On a return trip to my hometown, I shared that news that I had met a guy who flossed and who wore perfectly pressed pants.
“Soooo? How’d you meet? What’s he like?” they buzzed around the kitchen table of our Mary Kay makeover hostess.
“Oh, he’s great. He’s very polite.”
“Polite? Are you swooooooning?” my dear friend Jamie giggled, blush brush in hand.
“Well, he’s just so …. nice. I mean nicey-nice-nice nice,” I replied, knowing full well this was an absurd complaint. “I am not kidding in the least when I say that he is a real-life Richie Cunningham. It’s like I’m dating Opie.”
They snickered and assured me between sweeps of eyeshadow and bites of Chex Mix that I should stay the course until I had something worse to lament.
“I’m just not sure what to do with a nice guy,” I weakly whined.
“Keep dating!” they advised, now looking more like harlots than Charlottes.
The next Friday night, Opie and I waited for the movie to begin.
I leaned back in the theater seat with sudden exasperation, “I bet you were one of those kids who got the good citizenship award in high school, right?”
With a reluctant shrug and a head nod, he replied, “And perfect attendance.”