There is an APB out on a person with the following description: a man, about 6’2” with broad shoulders, a permanent five o’clock shadow, disheveled dark brown hair, piercing green eyes, pink pouty lips and that chiseled hip-bone muscle only swimmers’ possess.

He will more than likely be driving a luxury SUV — say a Porsche Cayenne. He enjoys sitting on the beach at dusk with a bottle of Albarino talking about how he is passionate about helping Bono save Africa. He believes the band Muse makes Radiohead look like amateurs and appreciates the artistry in The Sopranos series finale because it was deeper than meets the eye.

He is as at home hanging at the dive bar listening to scrappy college musicians, as he is sipping dirty martinis at a swanky jazz lounge. He knows how to change the oil in your car and can cook a five-star meal from the leftovers in your fridge.

Has anyone seen this man? Does anyone know someone who fits this description?
Neither do I.

In this case, APB does not stand for All Points Bulletin, but A Perfect Beau. I have a feeling it is just a myth. A true figment of our imagination left over from our girlhood fantasies.
Blame it all on Walt Disney. Of course it was a man who led us to believe that someday our prince would come — driving a white Jaguar. Then he’d sweep us off our cork wedges and we’d ride off into the Tahitian sunset.

We can also place some of the blame on men on television like tortured trust fund baby, Dylan McKay. Whenever tragedy struck the 90210 resident bad boy, he would fall into a downward spiral of red wine and fast motorcycle driving. The depth of his tormented soul plus his bank account kept us looking for our own rich renegade. The kid owned and lived in his own house during high school, that alone is enough to send a teenage girl into heat.

I found out quickly in high school that Dylan McKays absolutely do not exist. The closest thing I came to the sideburn Svengali, was a skater with a mother who took off to the Cape most weekends leaving us to crash in his garrison drinking Canadian Club, refilling the bottle with flat root beer. His motorcycle was a beat-up jalopy he found in the trash.

Most of us in our 20s have given up finding our knight in shining Armani. The most tragic ending of an adult women’s life is finding out that the moral of the story is what we always feared: All the good ones are married, gay or on their way to Africa to save the world.

Anonymous tips, locations or sightings of an APB should be sent to lowellita@lowellsun.com.