Saturday, February 6, 2010

Does it have to be a virtue?

It does feel good to blow my top from time to time.

The Rambling Uncensored Maunder is cathartic. And as a piece of writing, I surmise, it should be more palatable to readers who can choose to read or not read it than to listeners who can't turn me off when confronted with the same in person.

So, naturally ...

.... last night I got an e-mail from Southie Med. Benign, friendly. Telling me, of all things, he got his wisdom teeth taken out yesterday. But he enjoyed our Wednesday night at Tom English's and thinks we should try another.

Not exactly a burning love letter. But, indeed, a request for a second date. Even if it is beers in Southie on a Wednesday. It's a second date.

(Since I left our first date feeling apprehensive because I had been so talky ... so nervous, maybe?.... and thinking that I just wanted another chance to hang out with him without the nerves, I should be thrilled.)

Instead I'm feeling foolish for having no patience, or at least for showing a relative lack of class about it. If the second date goes swimmingly and afterwards he asks for this blog address and I give it to him, he's going to have to read that I called him a turd.

(Not that I couldn't go right now and change that word .... although if he's worth his salt, he'll have a sense of humor about it. If I'm so lucky.)

Then again, I'm feeling foolish for feeling foolish. Don't I deserve to be impatient? I'm 6 weeks from being 37, and have I not already exhibited years of patience? Should I have to wait 3 days after a date to hear if my date likes me enough to want to see me again?

There are only so many 3-day windows left in my life. I kind of want to know sooner than later if he thinks we could be mutually fascinating or is just happy for a weekly drinking buddy.

It's probably unfair to place this particular burden on Southie Med. We've had one date. We didn't use it getting into any lengthy or weighty discussions about expectations or desires; we talked like normal people about our jobs and our running and our families. He's not responsible for all facets of my future happiness or satisfying my impatience ....

.... yet.

This never gets easier, does it.

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