Somebody's Prize

Dating is kind of like eating a box of Cracker Jacks...

Sometimes a little sweet.  Sometimes a little salty.

Sometimes it leaves a bad tickle stuck in your throat that you can't seem to drink enough water to flush out...

But mostly, you're just sifting through the sweet and the salt and the crunch and the tickle, just to find the prize.  That tiny piece of red, white and blue paper at the bottom of the box that contains your personal square of guaranteed fun.

It could be a sticker, or a tiny picture book, or even a temporary tattoo.  Oh, you hope it's a temp tattoo... you can show that off at school tomorrow...

But once you've opened the prize, it is what it is. You don't get to put it back and reach in for another.  You don't get to choose.  Perhaps that's the only thing that dating has on Cracker Jacks-- it lets you choose your own prize.You're not stuck with a butterfly picture book.  If you really want the Popeye tattoo, you can hold out until you find it.

As a woman, I've always been told that I am the prize-- the tiny (hourglass) of guaranteed fun that a guy should hold out for, and be excited to receive.

Most of the time I believe that; I meet men online and they extoll my virtues and gush about my beauty (from what they see of me in pictures) and tell me that I am one of the most intelligent women they've ever met.

And then we meet in person.... and though it might not be at the beginning of the date... at some point in the date, I'll get that look.  The one that says they've been sifting through the box too long looking for what they expected to be a decoder ring... but what turned out to be a book of Aquaman stickers.

That I am a prize.  Just not the one they want.

You see, love is a choice.  And while they may love a million things about me that they can't see in my outward appearance, they have to also choose to love the package those things come in.

And though I think I'm pretty awesome, I'll be the first to admit to you that if I had been a Barbie, I would have broken through Mattel's mold with one swish of my spastic hip and a five-phalanged toe curl.

I'm not your typical girl... and the men who have loved me (few though they may be) have loved that about me. 

You see, love is a choice.  And I am a prize.  I am better than a thousand decoder rings and temporary tattoos, and I know it.

I'm just waiting for the right guy, sifting through the box, to pick me out and go, "Oh, cool!  I've never seen one like this before!  I'll give her a try!"

Because I know that once he makes that choice, he won't want to put me back.  And the rest will be our own sweet and salty history.