Dating, in my opinion, is neither all that fun, or comfortable, or graceful. Typically, I am very open about telling people how much I hate it. I hate the first moment you meet a new person. Or the first moment on a first date. I hate the awkward silence, and the moments that sit between questions when you have both run out of the ones you had planned out in your head and you’re scrambling for more! I hate craving familiarity–wishing he just knew what kind of beer I liked, or just knew that my feet get hot, or just knew that I like my milk nearly frozen, or just knew I don’t really like cheese, or just knew that I like to sleep with the fan on…I wish he just knew.
However–I love the end of first dates. The time where you actually get into real conversation and have discovered some of your common interests and your similarities. When you can keep talking and talking and talking. I like that.
I’ve been on several first dates these past 6 or 7 months. Some of them continued into 2nd and 3rd and 7th dates–others went nowhere. But, at the end of it, after all of these first dates, one thing remains–me, alone. But I’m always hopeful…(shh–don’t tell anyone).
Last night was another first date. I had time to grab a couple of drinks and some appetizers before I came over to my sister’s with a really nice guy. I found him at one of my favorite places downtown, and he was SO NICE. Funny, sweet, very cute. We had a lot in common, and I left hoping…hoping I’d see him again; hoping this one would be different; just hoping…because as much as I claim to be anti-relationships, I think I’m more “anti-settling-for-the-one-I’m-not-absolutely-freakin-smitten-over.” And I don’t want to apologize–if I’m not feeling “it” it’s likely not going to happen, and I’m not going to prolong it. That’s what it is…I think. Maybe I don’t know. There is, of course, also the possibility that I don’t have a damn clue.
Anyway–here’s to a second date–I’ll keep you posted.