The 72 hour recovery

Over the past few weeks, as I've gotten to know Theradate better, I started to have more and more moments when the thought crossed my mind that he did not seem like my future husband. Sometimes he felt more like an attractive gay best friend, like the day he posted shirtless photos of himself on Facebook. One day at his house, a friend of his said something critical about him, and rather than feeling indignant and defensive I thought, hmmm, it's a valid a point, and a bit worrisome. Some of his weird eating habits (frequent snacks of popcorn coated with olive oil, cinnamon and sugar substitute; plain yogurt with peanut butter) were starting to seem less cutely quirky and more just plain old bizarre, and he often used words that I thought anyone over 22 really has no business using, such as "ping" (meaning "text" for those who, like me, are unfamiliar with the word). So when Theradate asked me last week how I felt things were going, I was honest and told him that I felt pretty unsure, which led to a discussion in which we decided to call it quits.

Had I known three weeks earlier that that would happen, I would have predicted that I'd be devastated. And I was sad -- for 72 hours, or maybe a little less. By Monday evening, I mostly felt relieved. Theradate has many lovely qualities, but my excitement level had taken a nosedive, and the moments of feeling happy with him were rapidly becoming eclipsed by the moments of feeling doubtful and a little bit turned off.

So, while I harbor no ill will toward Theradate and had a great time with him in many ways, I'm officially taking him off the list of men I've been very excited about. In the meantime, I'd like to pay tribute to a few of the men in my life who give me hope that there are great men out there, and one day I might meet one of them:

My mechanic, who helped me through the difficult decision to buy a new car this week: "It's a big decision. No rush. Talk to your sister, take your time. You want to keep your car, I'm happy! I see you often, I work on your car, you pay me. But, you get another car, like maybe a Toyota or a Honda, you gonna be coming here a lot less often." When I brought my new car to have him check it over, he had a very fatherly moment in which he pulled me out of earshot of the seller to make sure I had checked the blue book value, then told me he'd miss seeing me so often once I'd purchased it.

My pottery teacher, who went through his recently deceased 98-year-old aunt's wardrobe recently and gave me a few vintage '60s and '70s pieces, carefully selecting those that would look good on a blonde (he has an unusually good eye for a straight man). They fit me like a glove.

My pottery crush, who my French cousin met this week and who she has aptly taken to referring to as my LLBean Boyfriend -- so, he may be getting a new blog name soon! When I told him about a disastrous craft fair a couple of weeks ago, he gave me mini clothes pins to use to hang my wares: "They'll flock to your table in droves," he promised. "Droves" might be slightly too strong a word, but I did make more than 12 times the amount of money the following week. And any man who likes miniature clothes pins is adorable in my book.