My fake boyfriend

I met my fake boyfriend when I was 16 years old. His name is Andrew and he’s two years older than I am.
Andrew Jameson is 22 years old and currently studies architectural engineering at the university a few minutes from mine. He’s in his 3rd year of university and we met at a party at a mutual friend’s house. He’s 6 feet tall, an Arsenal fan, drives a blue Honda Civic, plays 3 sports and takes guitar lessons (he knows that I have a thing for guys that strum).
He likes his hot dogs with ketchup, mustard but no relish; prefers the beach to going to the pool; really loves my smile and hates when I tickle his sides.

And if you’re really interested, he lost his phone at his best friend’s BBQ last week, he deleted his Facebook profile to focus on his school work and God no, he does not tweet.
Andrew Jameson is perfect and we’re naming our first daughter in honour of his aunt; who passed away last year.

Why do I have a fake boyfriend?

A girl can’t live in peace without one. When an obnoxious guy tries to flirt his way into my pants despite my million “not-interested” signs, I whip Andrew Jameson out like a Samurai pulls out his sword; like a Christian quotes Isaiah 54:17.

I remember years ago when I was standing at a gas station waiting for Mr. Tardy, my father, to pick me up and I was approached.

You ladies know what I’m talking about. And all you guys have done it or at least thought about doing it. A guy approaches a girl for a variety of reasons. Maybe he’s lost or maybe he wants a phone call. But a girl can always spot an approach. The approach is when a guy slinks towards you like a lizard to a fly, with that extra pep in his step and the lyrics so ready to run off his tongue they leave skid marks.

After dutifully but politely warding off this young man’s advances it was time to pull out Andrew.

That was the first time Andrew failed me. And since then he hasn’t been as reliable. Sometimes when I need him most for a quick escape he becomes transparent. Sometimes each time I wave him around in the face of the latest contender he becomes invisible and useless.
But in Andrew’s defence sometimes being married with two kids and an SUV isn’t even enough to keep the thirsty ones at bay. That being said, Andrew Jameson just doesn’t pack enough heat any more.

We as females shouldn’t need a Sir Andrew Jameson or a Billy Joe or whatever name you endowed upon your fake boyfriend.
I wish I were able to turn a guy down in five words or less and stand at a gas station in peace, or sit on a bench at school after expressing lack of interest without yet another guy advertising himself as the perfect candidate for me.

I also wish rainbows were made of skittles, and I still wish Santa Claus existed, I wish I had a million more wishes.
But until then, I’ll hold tightly to Andrew Jameson and suit him up to fire at the next John Doe that speeds through all the stop lights of that all too familiar I’m-just-not-that-into-you highway.