They say that, for women, the most important quality in a man is his sense of humor. I am no exception. My ideal man is highly intelligent and educated, Jewish (of course!), from New York or New Jersey, into the arts, and has that “greater New York area” Jewish personality and sense of humor. And he will treat me like a (Jewish) princess. I can dream, can’t I?

But here in the real world, it’s not always that simple. My grandmother (may she rest in peace) used to tell me that, if a man is good to me, I could grow to love him. But, to me, this sounds like I’m back in the shtetl. I think of Tevye in “Fiddler on the Roof,” asking his wife Golda, after 25 years of their arranged marriage, whether she loves him. Her answer contains a laundry list of how she has demonstrated her love for him (“For 25 years, I’ve done all this. If that’s not love, then what is?”), but not one mention of the word bashert. But I am more like one of the daughters, hoping that the matchmaker (in my case, JDate) will “find me a find, catch me a catch.”

Perhaps, however, because my needs at 50 are different from my needs at 25, I am starting to see the wisdom in my grandmother’s words. “Nu, Sharoneleh, you could be very happy with this man,” referring to any number of my “boyfriends du jour” who treated me (and her) well. But what do you do when you have a man who fits almost all of your criteria—a man who is good to you, but whose sense of humor isn’t quite what you’re used to?

My neighbors Cheryl and Ted were high school sweethearts, but went their separate ways in college. Three divorces later (two for Cheryl and one for Ted), they have been happily married for over seven years. I ran into Cheryl, who asked me how things were going with the “New York Jewish guy.” I felt embarrassed to admit that I was “struggling” with the relationship. “He’s wonderful . . . and maybe it’s just me . . . but his sense of humor is a little different than what I’m used to.”

Cheryl isn’t Jewish, but having grown up in a Jewish neighborhood in New York, she knew exactly what I meant, and she proceeded to tell me how she feels about Ted. “Most of the time, I don’t get his sense of humor and, when I do, I don’t even like it that much. I can’t expect to get everything from Ted. That’s why I have my friends. But my mother is dying and Ted’s been so good to her.” What Cheryl didn’t say then, but has said before, is that she has fibromyalgia and Ted also takes good care of her. “He’s what you’d call a mensch. I adore him.”

The man I am seeing calls his parents every day and, in the past two months, has flown back to New York twice to check on his father, who slipped and fell on the ice, fracturing a bone in his leg. While there, he spent a lot of time running errands for his mother, who had not yet completely recovered from back surgery. He calls me every weekday at lunchtime and at night (and reads me a bedtime story), brings me flowers every Shabbos, and fixes things around my house.

They say that how a man treats his parents, particularly his mother, is indicative of how he will treat you and, by extension, your aging parents. Did I mention that I am often recovering from workout injuries and that my father is starting to lose his balance?

This morning at Starbucks, I ran into Ted. I hadn’t seen Cheryl for a while, so I asked how her mother was doing. Cheryl’s mother was under hospice care, and Ted was getting coffee on his way to visit her. I told Ted that Cheryl was lucky to be married to him. He said, “I’m the lucky one. After seven years, I still feel like a newlywed. You should be so lucky.”

Perhaps I am.