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.

The E word

I woke up on Friday morning to a chat from my recently traumatized friend Checkered Girl, who wanted a Dreamy update. When I told her that my plans for that evening included bringing up the topic of exclusivity, she balked and advised me to hold off. She pointed out that modern American men have a tendency to flip out when they hear the E word, and that we have only been dating for a month. She thought it would be more appropriate to have the exclusivity talk closer to the 2 or 3 month mark.

All good points which I considered seriously, then decided to ignore. First of all, I don't think Dreamy is a guy who would flip out at the mention of the E word; and if he is, maybe he's not the kind of person I want to date. Second of all, I had canceled a date with an eligible bachelor because of Dreamy, and I wanted to make sure we were on the same page. A few years ago, after I had been dating my ex White Pants for several (3 I think) months, it occurred to me that I should check to make sure we were exclusive. I was shocked and amazed by his response: "I'm not seeing anyone, but I'm not comfortable agreeing to be exclusive yet." FINE. I found a replacement boyfriend and sent him on his way. How long does it take to know that you are interested in seriously pursuing something with a person?? I think one month is more than enough. In fact, I had a strong hunch after date #1 that I was seriously interested in Dreamy, and pretty darn sure after date #2.

So I brought it up with Dreamy, and we had a very romantic conversation (I thought) in which we agreed to not see other people. I told him about canceling my date; we talked about making more time for each other. He said he'd like to talk more during the week when we're too busy to see each other.

Making more time for each other, though, turns out to be more easily said than done. Dreamy had plans this week on Tuesday and Thursday; I have pottery on Wednesday. He suggested he come by after his plans on Tuesday or Thursday, but Dreamy finishes work around 7, and I am often in bed by 9:30. It seemed unlikely he'd be able to make it over before then. I considered offering to visit him after my pottery class, but I carpool with my friend Heathen, and a visit would mean going solo; besides, I am tired and muddy after I get out of pottery. As we worked out all these kinks and finally settled on hanging out on Friday, I began to get annoyed again, especially since next week is virtually booked up for me already. I knew it wasn't his fault, since I am just as busy as he is, but I was annoyed nonetheless and wishing that he could just be free whenever I am.

Then Dreamy sent me a couple of short emails that made everything better. "I hate that we can't see each other until Friday," he said, and my annoyance dissipated, just knowing that he wishes he could see me before then. Next: "Let's plan a Fall Adventure for Saturday." Finally, the clincher: "Do you need help moving?"

It really doesn't get much more romantic than that.

Prêt-à-porter

As Earl, the hurricane with buck teeth and a mullet, wends his way toward Massachusetts, it seems increasingly unlikely that Dreamy and I will be able to follow through with our plan to watch an outdoor movie in a park tonight. As an alternative, Dreamy invited me over to his place to watch a movie. Cuddling up with Dreamy and a movie as Earl unleashes his wrath sounds very... nice. However, I got a piece of sisterly advice yesterday from Ms. Swamp: "You've only been on two dates with him," she reminded me. "If you really like him, don't get too physical at this point."

Darn sisters! They're always ruining all the fun. But she's right, of course. Dreamy is a little bit old-fashioned (BUT not in the least bit paternalistic, my Wise Woman would be happy to know), and it's probably best to take things slowly. I plan to take him up on his offer to drive me back home after the movie. Still, I might wear my new Parisian underpants that my French cousins gave me for my birthday, just for good luck. (I haven't worn them yet because they seem so beautiful and delicate; I just take them out and gaze at them once in a while.)

So, my undergarment decisions have been made for the evening. But what else do I wear?? What is the proper attire when heading out for a date in the middle of a hurricane? A dress and my red child-size LLBean galoshes, perhaps?