I have a new boyfriend. He’s tall and handsome with broad shoulders and thick, brown hair. He’s got a muscled chest and tight abs. Oh, and he fills out a pair of jeans just right. We spend almost every evening together and, sometimes, entire weekends. He’s smart, honest and kind, but sometimes a little dark and brooding. You see, he lost his wife about a year ago. He’s got plenty of ambition. He wears cowboy boots and carries a gun. There’s only one problem: He lives in Wyoming.

My new boyfriend is Sheriff Longmire. You might recognize the name, if you subscribe to Netflix.

There are definite advantages to having a Netflix boyfriend. Longmire doesn’t care what I’m wearing. I never, ever have to shave my legs. And he has never once expected me to make him dinner (although I certainly would). He has never left hair in the bathroom drain, failed to remember something I said or farted in bed.

He’s always there when I need him and he never whines when I don’t. I couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend right now. If it wasn’t for his unfortunate first name, he’d be perfect. But that’s a blog for another day.