Likeableus Boyfriendus

Every so often a friend picks a good one. He’s not a player. He doesn’t talk about his job ad nauseum with a puffed chest. He doesn’t hit on her friends when she’s in the bathroom. Every once in a while you like a friend’s new beau and want to pull her aside and tell her so, encourage her to hold onto him not because the single life is exhausting, what with all the giggles and hair coloring and leg shaving, but because he seems like a great guy, one of the last of his order who should be tagged and put on display to confirm the existence of his genus.

I met my friend E’s boyfriend on Friday night, as I arrived late to the Nats game, staving off a migraine with commemorative cups of soda and beer. I had the seat next to his, which would normally have me irritated, what with my hating the small talk and the human race and what not. But he was a talker. There was no pulling teeth, no wondering why this guy was ignoring her friends when he should be making even miniscule efforts to know the people important to her. He was funny, kind, and knew odd facts about players on both teams. I happen to love people who could take the series on Worthless Facts Jeopardy. Check.

But a girl knows the truth isn’t in the persona he puts on for the crowd, as evidenced by every bad apple we dumped to the disbelief of the masses. It’s not in the expensive clothes he wears or the people he makes sure you know he knows. It’s in the way he treats her. He treated her. They stole kisses when they thought the spinsters weren’t looking. They whispered to one another. He reached for her hand as they walked a few feet behind the rest of us and made sure she didn’t want for a beer or surprisingly hard soft pretzel at any time. And he introduced her to a friend, which any woman knows means they’ll be buying a king bed and Peapoding their groceries within the year. Check. Check. Check.

The cautious singleton in me wants to tell her to enjoy with limits, to savor each moment while keeping her heart tritely protected, but the romantic in me is clearly winning this thought wrestle. I’m excited to hear her stories about the possibility of an early move-in, about how she now knows what I meant years ago when talking about how the good guys treat you, about how they call when they say they will (and often before) and are proud to have you as their date at each and every wedding. She is over the moon that she found a keeper and has every right to be screaming it from the upper deck. And this spinster is simply thrilled by the confirmation that they’re not yet extinct.