Encore: My Italian Boyfriend

An Italian boyfriend.

I had one once but I didn’t know it.

Come to think of it neither did he.

It was years ago. I was in Florence. It was spring. I was slowly walking in and among The Accademia Gallery awestruck at the carved figures struggling to break free from their marble prisons.

When I saw him, standing there a beautiful male specimen. Strong, steadfast, thighs the size of tree trunks, hands the size of catcher mitts. No, not my Italian boyfriend,

rather Michelangelo’s David.

I gazed upon him with awe, fascinated by his “lifelikeness”.

As I studied David, in all his glory, my Italian boyfriend was standing right behind me.

“Can you take my picture?” I asked my colleague who was with me.

“Absolutely.” She replied.

She saw him. I didn’t.

No. I was too busy getting my geek on in my faded jeans and my “cause” t-shirt. I’m like that. Oblivious to my immediate surroundings (an honestly never noticed until I returned home and the picture was developed)

not just when I’m in the presence of art, especially art of mythical proportions,

I’m oblivious to potential

and possibility.

Not that “My Italian Boyfriend” was a possibility, but I’ve discovered he serves brilliantly as a cheeky symbol of all the possibilities I’ve missed in life because I’ve been to preoccupied by other “stuff”.

How often are we too focused on what we believe to be THE MOST IMPORTANT THING ON THE PLANET,

(ahem, work) that

we miss the beauty of the first snowfall,

or the hilarity of a colleagues “snort” when he laughs.

Our job is important, it can be seen as momentous,

but it shouldn’t,

at least not at the expense of missing out on something or someone special…

especially if he has impressive forearms and can rock a black t-shirt.



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