You know that whole opposites attract thing? Well I wasn't buying into it. I wanted Mr. Perfect, and who in the world proved a better muse for molding just what perfection equated to than ME.

So in they came and out they went. In and out of my front door, my life, and my heart. I was becoming the queen of the three-month relationship. It took just that much time to figure out how imperfect they were. In fact, I probably figured that out the moment they admitted to a love of Chinese food and action films (my two most loathsome hinderances). There was no way I would settle for anyone so unlike myself. I was just going to have to hold out until that object of perfection came walking through my front door. So when he did come my way, of course I knew at once it would last forever. He was the mirrored reflection of me. What could possibly go wrong?

His name is Ashton. In an apparent attempt to throw all of my friends into nauseous convulsions, I call him Ash (o.k. and sometimes sweetie) for short. He's a gorgeous brunette with sun-kissed skin and eyes so blue that one mere glance at them sends me into a sickening sort of love trance. He's a twenty-eight year old Stanford grad, who published his first novel at twenty-two, speaks three languages, and has an extensive knowledge of art, politics, and obscure foreign cinema. He leaves little tokens of affection under my pillow, and sends me flowers every month to mark the anniversary of the day we met. He's perfect, and I'm incredibly in love with him. There is one little problem. You see he doesn't really exist.

My mom had no qualms in telling me that my search would go unrequited. "You're looking for someone who doesn't exist", she would tell me. My love life had become the round table discussion that always left my friends sitting beside me at the table snickering over all the poor schmucks who'd passed quickly through my life. I didn't mind so much, knowing that when I found Mr. Perfect, they'd see that it was all worth it. Never mind the fact that I was trying to conceive of some sort of easily interchangeable nametag for the guy du jour so that my friends wouldn't have to wonder who this new face was sitting beside me at the dinner table. I honestly knew in my heart that I would find him. My hunt for Mr. Right would eventually deliver to my doorstep a tidy little package of perfection to call my own, and not too long ago, the delivery driver did indeed ring my bell, and that's when my Ashton arrived.

You know that moment when you look across a crowded room and just know that you've locked sight on the one? Well, after I'd klutzily tripped over the threshold of the room and managed to break my fall by clutching onto a bookshelf filled with breakable kitsch, I spotted him. He was poised as he cleverly engaged three people in a conversation that was clearly intriguing, as they all seemed to hang onto every word that escaped his lips. He seemed to exude perfection, so of course I was immediately drawn to him. After begging a friend for an introduction, I knew I'd met my match. His name was Todd and his bio read like a list I could have only conceived in my wildest dreams. Twenty-nine, graduated top of his class at an elite university, successful family, culturally diverse taste in food, film, and music, wrote poetry in his spare time, and donated the other portion of that time to working with underprivileged children.

We never quite bid adieu to our first date and before I knew it I was engaged in a full-on committed relationship that found me ecstatically attached at the hip to Todd. He taught me about everything from architecture, to the beauty found in a beating bossa nova tune. Our dinners always included the finest wine and an entrée that I yearned to hear him order for me in that perfectly uttered French accent needed to properly hold your own with the snooty Parisian waiter looking down at you from his prestigious position as maitre d'. We shopped together, strolled together hand in hand, and gazed into each other's eyes and whispered into each other's ears as if we'd just escaped from a Danielle Steele novel. We even spent two weekends shopping for the perfect antique Christmas ornaments to go with his perfect seven foot Douglas fir, the colors of which, of course, perfectly complimented his perfectly decorated living room. Everything in this relationship was so utterly perfect that within a matter of time, I was feeling a wave of nausea every time I reflected upon the relationship.

You see, the problem with perfection is that the fall from that high and mighty throne you've placed one another on is incredibly jarring. There are also those moments when the tides turn and that perfectly blue ocean water doesn't quite look as appealing as it once did. Given a couple of months canoodling in our perfect little bubble, I began to yearn for escape. Todd's perfectly coifed 'do, and that cute little habit he had of correcting the inaccuracies in my vernacular was once quite endearing, but now it drove me insane. Our mirrored loves of, well, just about everything, was becoming so dull that I yearned for one of those opposites I'd once discarded so carelessly. How I craved one small imperfection, a mismatched shoe to belt, even one of those moments of "no one heard that" flatulence. My life with Todd had become such the his and hers advertisement for Perfection-R-Us, that I had lost a sense of my own individuality.

So what's my point here? What lesson comes through this particular chronicle that has any sort of relevance to the male readership that most oft finds their way to my column? I may have been in search of Mr. Perfect, but I've come across more men than you can imagine that were in search of the same perfection in a female version. I have a handful of male friends who are still single and very much in search for a "type" of person that they're bound to find isn't as perfect for them as they once believed. In fact, in the middle of writing this column I stumbled across an article in Elle Magazine written by one Rick Eid, who must be my male counterpart. He too had been in search of Ms. Perfect and after finding her, found that he yearned for something a little less perfect. You see, I don't think it's that uncommon. The problem is, most don't realize that they're searching for the wrong person until they wake up, in their 30's, alone, and bewildered by the vast number of Ms. Perfect faces that had filled their bedside picture frame.

So where am I now? Well, that search for perfection has led to one definitive conclusion on my part. Mr. Perfect is swell and all, but when the glass shatters on that mirrored image and you both dread the act of cleaning up the mess, who's going to pick up the broken pieces? Find a person just like yourself and there will be no one to make up for all those things which one lacks.

So to all you men out there who still hold out for something a little more pristine, a little more perfect, I urge you to give a second thought, or a second date, to that gal who at first may appear all wrong for you. True that in your opposite, there will be differences in personality, but there will also never be a moment of boredom. Through a pairing of opposites, you'll be introduced to all those things you never had any reason to be interested in before and chances are you'll end up finding that your opposite natures make for the perfect complement. Best of all, you may find just that sort of complementary pairing wherein your hatred of cooking and knack for virtuoso guitar playing is met with a one of a kind gal who loves to cook and has the voice of a lark. So rather than spending your days posing for that Perfection-R-Us ad campaign, you'll spend nights eating well-cooked cuisine and playing gigs as Sonny and Cher impersonators. Believe me, when you find her, you'll have no qualms in belting out "I've got you babe!".