My imagination is a blessing and a curse. It can take me to faraway lands and allow me to hold long conversations with whomever I wish. It also has helped me foster a series of relationships with imaginary boyfriends over the years. Now, I don't mean men that don't actually exist. THAT would be mentally ill. My imaginary beaus are one's that I do know and usually spend some degree of time with in real life. I just tend to fixate on them. Mulling over every conversation we've had. Deciphering every friendly pat on the shoulder. Swooning over every peck on the cheek. Lately, my imaginary boyfriends have been failing me. The last one just wasn't cutting it. It was with much reluctance, I had to break it off with him. He just wasn't giving me what I needed. I was in a word: despondent. Cyndemouse sensed my angst and declared a new imaginary boyfriend must be located asap. But alas, there were none to be found. Around this time, He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not starring that French cutie-patootie, Audrey Tatou, arrived from Netflix. The film was disturbing. Suddenly, I felt like I had gone from having a playful imagination to a disease- erotomania. (Um, this is where my hypochondria kicks in.) I looked erotomania up in my new dictionary. Erotomaniacs believe the object of their affections are in love with them, too. I've certainly never believed that. My deal is, I have to try to convince him to love me. If I just try hard enough.... pay the nicest compliment, cook the best meal, learn the most about his interests, then he'll have to realize I'm the girl he can't live without. "How's that working for you?" you might ask. It's not. It never has. Even if I stretch back across the years and all the objects of my affection; it never has. Not the first one that I got my head cracked open for over in the third grade. Or the longest running one who has fermented into more of my closest man friend and gold standard for the man who actually will claim my heart. And most certainly not the most recent who apparently finds me useful but not of interest for much more. Amongst all my angst over a lack of a quality imaginary boyfriend, I accidentally started fostering a real relationship. Talulah got a great new art director position and left her job. At her going away party, I finally got to meet one of her co-workers that I'd heard enough about to make me curious. After that, we'd see each other every few weeks in a group and I suddenly found myself trying to come up with more frequent reasons to see him and continue our conversations. I tried to figure out a nonchalant way to get him alone. All my plots were foiled. Finally, I got my chance and it just sorted itself out to the point we've become kind of inseperable. Last week, my Mom dropped me off at the train station as I headed out for a business trip. Seemingly like Shiva, she managed the steering wheel, cell phone, a can of Coke and a cigarette, still having a free hand to run through her shock of spiky hair. As I pulled my bags out of the backseat, she asked if I'd need to be picked up when I returned a few days later. Magpie: "No, I don't think so. My new boyfriend is going to meet me." Slyly peeps out of the corner of her eye waiting for the response. Mama Bird: Mouth drops open enough to detect the flash of her tongue ring. Incredulously says, "You mean one that's not imaginary?" Three days later and after eleven hours in transit, I stepped off the train. There he was in the distance, pacing like Rilke's panther, holding the best bouquet of flowers a girl could ever want. When I walked up he broke this stellar smile and took my hand. Magpie: "Look, Ma. This one is for real."