Mr. Everybody

Larry laughing at something
 ridiculous

SPECIAL NOTICE:  For maximum enjoyment, this post will require you to know who Lucas McCain is.

Like everyone,  I've heard adages and expressions in my life that are hard to forget for a couple of reasons:  either they were told to me when I didn't know from it, or, they were told to me by a person in their late eighties with weathered skin  and piercing eyes who didn't get that far by being a nitwit.  

Here's one: 

For balance, every woman needs eight friends who are more or less than she is in each of these four categories: wealth, looks, brains and popularity.

False. I need loyal, supportive and honest friends no matter what they have in the bank or who thinks they are hilarious and I can get by with fewer than eight. 

Here's another:

Your first serious celebrity crush(es) will predict things about your most serious life relationship.

That one's true. 

I was always embarrassed to admit my crushes  - nobody got it. Danny over Keith? George over Paul?  Really? Why?  It all makes sense now. 

I'll start with the Rifleman.

While all the other  girls  thought Mark McCain was dreamy with those soulful eyes and the way he said "Paw," I developed a stubborn crush on Lucas, the squinty, tough, wise, gritty rifleman who solved problems with his rifle and asked questions later.

There was not a single thing about him that a real woman couldn't change, I thought. And he had been left to both mother and father Mark, even with a rattlesnake in his sleeping bag. I wanted to make it all better for the tough/tender Lucas.

I never went for the Davy Jones accent, I went for the Michael Nesmith eyes which I imagined smoldering with inspiration for a ballad called, simply, "Joanne" "Susan". I wanted to look into eyes like that forever.

Unlike everyone else at the bus stop, I never really liked Mick or Paul. I liked Gary Puckett because even if you saw less of him in magazines,  his songs were always about seducing women. Did no one ever teach me the facts of life? No. And there was so much I had to learn. I wanted Gary to answer a few questions.

I never liked dumbbell Keith Partridge, but the conniving Danny. I wanted someone too savvy to be outsmarted by the average Joe.   

I didn't like jaded John or puppy Paul, I liked serious George who traded profile for pride.

And even if he wore the same khakis and white shirt every day, year in and out on the island, I liked the professor with a soul - an everybody I would have to keep everybody away from. 

I never went for the Hugh Grant smirk but the David Letterman wit. I wanted that sharp take on the ridiculous.

I didn't know I was shopping for so many things or even when I found them, until one day in November, 1983, when I heard the sound of my future husband's voice, reached for the perfume, fluffed up my hair and skulked around until he noticed me.  

And after all those crushes, I knew this was no somebody. This man, whose last name I was doodling next to my own on legal pads in meetings, was an everybody 

Mr. and Mrs. Everybody

Twenty-eight years and four children later, here we are,  still with the same last name, still making plans for the things we'll do years from now.

One of my favorite friends passed along this sentiment about marrying the love of her life: 

I think about what might never have been, and I cherish every single day.  

That one's true. 

There is no better way to describe the joy at having found, and remained with the most serious love of your life. I found and remained with all of them.   

Happy Anniversary, Mr. Everybody.