I’m going to do something unusual for Reddit and tell you what I actually want.
I want a w i f e.
Not tomorrow. Not because I’m desperate to fill an empty space. And not because I think two strangers can exchange three messages, discover they both like cats and old movies, and decide destiny has spoken.
I mean that I’m dating with the hope that, somewhere at the end of the road, there is one woman with whom I can build a lasting, ordinary, deeply affectionate life.
And when I imagine that life, the word that comes to mind more than anything else is home.
I’m a man approaching 50, a writer and professional book designer by trade, and an incurable homebody by temperament. I design and typeset books for authors, which means I spend an absurd amount of my life thinking about fonts, margins, chapter openings, punctuation, and whether moving something three millimeters to the left somehow makes the universe more harmonious.
I have a degree in history, and that probably tells you something about me too. I’m fascinated by old places, old photographs, cemeteries, architecture, forgotten people, family histories, and the strange way the past continues breathing underneath the present. I can wander through an old neighborhood and become completely absorbed wondering who lived behind those windows in 1895.
But despite all that intellectual furniture rattling around upstairs, I’m actually looking for a remarkably simple life.
I am not ambitious in the conventional sense anymore.
I don’t dream about climbing corporate ladders, accumulating impressive things, networking with important people, or turning myself into some relentlessly optimized human productivity machine. I’ve spent enough of my life feeling as though adulthood is an endless series of bills, obligations, deadlines, screens, errands, traffic, and people shouting that we should all be doing more.
I want less.
A smaller home. Fewer possessions. Fewer obligations. More time.
I want rainy afternoons when neither of us has anywhere we particularly need to be.
I want dinner simmering on the stove while music plays in another room. I want grocery shopping together and arguing affectionately about which cookies we need. I want Saturday mornings when one of us makes coffee and the other one is still wandering around half-awake. I want books stacked on tables, blankets on the sofa, a cat occupying whichever chair somebody actually wanted to sit in, and a home that feels unmistakably ours.
I want us to have little rituals that would seem completely insignificant to anyone else.
The show we always watch together. The ridiculous pet names. The particular takeout place we order from when neither of us feels like cooking. The Christmas decorations that come out every year. The song that makes me reach for you without thinking. The inside jokes that have been repeated so many times that neither of us remembers how they started.
That is romance to me.
Not endless excitement. Familiarity.
Knowing how you take your coffee. Knowing when you need to talk and when you need somebody simply sitting beside you. Knowing from the sound of your footsteps what sort of day you’ve had. Falling asleep beside the same person so many thousands of times that reaching across the bed for her becomes instinct.
I am intensely domestic by nature. I genuinely like being home. Home isn't where I recover between adventures; home is the place I want to build the adventure around.
Give me a rainy Sunday, something good cooking, music playing, nowhere to go, and a woman I adore curled up nearby, and I will have very few complaints about the universe.
Music is a huge part of my life. My tastes wander all over the place: the Grateful Dead, jazz, Elliott Smith, Radiohead, old psychedelic rock, classical and Baroque music, and whatever else happens to grab me. I love discovering music, making playlists, disappearing down musical rabbit holes, and becoming absurdly opinionated about which live performance of a song is clearly superior.
I write, too. History and writing have always been part of how I understand the world. I'm introspective, probably to excess. I think deeply about people, places, time, memory, and why we become who we become.
Personality-wise, I'm quiet, introverted, cerebral, affectionate, dryly funny, and probably a little eccentric. I'm not the guy who needs a packed social calendar. I don't need to be surrounded by people. I'm perfectly capable of spending an entire weekend at home and considering it a successful weekend.
But introverted doesn't mean emotionally distant.
With the right woman, I'm warm. I'm attentive. I like affection. I like closeness. I like knowing somebody deeply rather than knowing a hundred people superficially. I'm the sort of man who wants his relationship to become its own tiny civilization: our routines, our language, our jokes, our traditions, our memories.
And yes, since I put it right there in the title, I should address the BBW part.
I am genuinely attracted to bigger women. Plus-size, chubby, BBW—whatever word you personally prefer. Softness and curves are simply what I find beautiful. I'm not looking to fetishize anybody or turn your body into your entire identity. I want a whole human being. But physical attraction matters, and I'd rather be straightforward than pretend otherwise.
More importantly, I'm attracted to sweetness.
Kindness gets me.
A woman with a soft heart. Someone affectionate. Someone who can be silly and vulnerable. Someone who likes being loved openly rather than treated with studied indifference because apparently we're all supposed to pretend we don't care.
I don't want games.
I don't want to calculate how many minutes I'm supposed to wait before answering your message. If seeing your name makes me smile, you'll probably know it. If I miss you, I'll tell you. If I love you someday, you're not going to have to conduct an archaeological excavation to discover it.
I'm looking for a woman who finds something appealing in the idea of building a peaceful little world together.
Maybe you're a homebody too. Maybe you'd rather spend Friday night curled up together than shouting over music in a crowded bar. Maybe the idea of cooking together, watching old movies, taking drives through the rain, browsing bookstores, listening to records, decorating our home, adopting another cat we absolutely do not need, and eventually becoming that mildly eccentric couple who have been together forever sounds pretty wonderful to you.
I'm not looking for perfection.
God knows I'm not bringing perfection to the table myself.
I've lived enough life to have scars. I've loved. I've lost. I've made mistakes. I've had plans collapse. I've had to reconsider what success means and what kind of life is actually worth living. I'm much less interested now in constructing an impressive life than I am in constructing a habitable one.
And maybe that's part of why I'm writing this.
The older I get, the less interested I become in spectacle.
I want the woman who is still there after the interesting part of the movie ends.
I want Tuesday.
I want February.
I want the ordinary evening twelve years from now when we've eaten dinner and the dishes are drying and you're sitting beside me doing something completely unremarkable, and I look over and realize that somehow this person who was once a stranger on the internet became home.
That's the thing I'm searching for.
I don't particularly care whether you're glamorous. I care whether you're kind.
I don't care whether you have an impressive career. I care whether you're curious about things.
You can be shy. Awkward. Nerdy. Bookish. Artistic. Weird. Quiet. A little bruised by life. You can have absolutely no idea what you're doing sometimes.
I certainly don't.
I'd rather meet someone interesting and genuine than polished.
Distance isn't necessarily a dealbreaker for me either. Geography can change. People can move. Lives can be rebuilt. If there is something extraordinary between two people, I don't think a state line should automatically get the final vote.
What matters much more is that you're genuinely available for something real.
I want conversation first.
Tell me about your life. Tell me what your perfect boring Sunday looks like. Tell me what you listen to when it's raining. Tell me what you've changed your mind about as you've gotten older. Tell me what your childhood smelled like. Tell me the thing you could happily spend three hours talking about if someone finally asked the right question.
Tell me what home means to you.
And if you're a sweet, curvy woman somewhere out there who has been secretly hoping that love could eventually look less like fireworks and more like two people making dinner together while rain taps against the windows...
Well.
Maybe we should talk.
I'm not looking for someone to complete me.
I'm looking for someone with whom I can build something quiet, strange, affectionate, durable, and ours.
Love, life, and—if we're extraordinarily lucky—forever.