My Super Secret Fake Boyfriend

It’s OK. My husband knows about him.  He’s the one who pointed out that this guy was my true soul mate.  My husband says that I am the female version of this dreamboat. The only bad thing is that he isn’t real.  Well, he’s not a figment of my imagination, or anything like that.  It’s just, well, he’s a TV character.

 Since I am among friends here, I will spit it out. I’m in love with Sheldon Cooper.  I didn’t begin watching the Big Bang Theory until earlier this year, as I am usually not a sit-com person, but I happened to catch it while flipping through the channels.  I was instantly mesmerized by the charming individual on the screen. 

 OK. Sheldon is not charming.  He’s actually quite insulting, which is what I love because I am the same way! Why hide what you really think when you could just say it and watch people grimace?  It’s more entertaining than watching people have fights on Facebook. 

 In addition to totally lacking a filter, Sheldon and I have a few other things in common.  First, we are both pretty sure that you can die if someone else drinks from your glass.  Seriously, NO ONE shares a drink with me.  NO ONE.  If anyone takes a sip of my drink, it becomes THEIR drink.  And we won’t even talk about taking bites of my food.  EWWWW.  Can you drink Purell? I might try if you use my fork. 

 Speaking of Purell, one must always carry it.  You never know when you will need to disinfect on the run.  Seriously.  Someone could shake your hand, and there might not be soap and water near by.  Then, what would you do?  You can’t very well set your hand on fire to kill the germs.  You need Purell with you at all times, even if you are near running water, which you should be.

 Sheldon and I are indoor people.  As he said, “If outside is so good, why has man spent thousands of years perfecting inside?”  Excellent question.  I love the great INDOORS.  Give me furniture, climate control, and indoor plumbing and I am happy.  I went camping once.  Once. That was enough.  As my husband has pointed out, my idea of roughing it is staying in a hotel with no room service and only basic cable.

 I’d rather not drive to that hotel, though.  Unlike Sheldon, I do have my driver’s license; I’d just rather not use it.  I’m ok with little trips around my suburban little hood, but do not make me use the highway, and please don’t think I will drive through “downtown.”  My palms literally sweat in those situations.

 One thing I don’t have is Sheldon’s metabolism.  How does he get take-out every night of the week and NOT get chubby?  I know he’s like seven feet tall, but still.  I would kill to be able to eat Chinese every Monday, and pizza every Friday and not be as wide as I am tall.  Maybe I will call him and ask him what his secret is.  Oh, wait.  He’s not real.  Darn.


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