Friday diary 18: The worst thing about dating me
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I went on a first date recently. He showed up with flowers! Wearing a blazer! And took me to a hockey game. I enjoyed the small dog races at intermission.
During the game I asked him what the worst part of dating him is. He gave a kind of interview answer, but acknowledged it, which I respect. Then he turned the question on me. What a great question, I congratulated myself. I didn’t have a ready answer.
What I said, which I think is true, is that I’m never happy. I’m always going to be dissatisfied. I’m always going to be striving for more, better, more interesting. If your goal is to make me happy, you’re going to have a bad time. But if your goal is to work together to make our lives better, or at least more interesting, I’m your girl.
I like him. He’s good at disagreeing. He’s genuinely curious. He doesn’t seem to need to be right or know more or have all the answers. He can talk about anything I want to talk about. We went out for NYE with some friends and he was attentive without being overbearing. And he danced! He wasn’t able to make it back to the group in time for the ball drop so I kissed my very hot girl friend and he was only mad he didn’t get to see it happen. I’m just waiting to find out he’s a serial killer.
“He’s not really your type,” my sister said about him. “That’s a good thing.” Unlike with many of my previous relationships, I’m not looking for him to make me a better thinker or go hard challenging me intellectually (though I do appreciate that he challenges my opinions with reasonable and informed counterarguments). I’m not immediately feeling huge amounts of limerence. It feels nice and comfortable. But not to the point of being boring. In a way that feels, to use a word my therapist likes, sustainable. Like we’re developing mutual affection at a healthy pace.
And if and when I do find out he’s a serial killer, it’ll make for good content.

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