Moral of the story: I don’t fucking know anything.Thursday, 8:53 p.m.
He’s doing everything almost right. No one can do everything right. Right?
I feel like as women we give men handicaps like in golf. Okay so there’s no way he can be woke and humble and hard working and responsible and kind and funny. So we keep giving them the benefit of the doubt and why should we do that?
So we can have companionship.
So we can have sex.
So we can not be alone. all. the. time.
Are all men just less than a good woman? I mean maybe?
When I hang out with my close friends, we want the best for each other automatically. It’s a given. We listen. We take turns. We are kind to each other. We lift each other up; we tell each other hard truths in love. We don’t give a shit if the car is clean or if someone is wearing makeup or a goddamn bright pink shirt or whatever. Who fucking cares? If someone takes a mental health day we cheer for them, even if we have to watch their class. We don’t get to hang out as much as we want because responsibilities, because work, students, family. Because.
I hung out with some besties tonight. One said that no men are great. They are all dicks in some way. I’m processing that and finding that I constantly make amends for guys; well they aren’t as woke as I want but they know how to load the dishwasher or vice-versa.
So what you don’t know since Hinge Date #1 is that we’ve spent hours and hours and hours together since Saturday at 3 p.m. Hours.
I’ve been fucked properly for the first time in my life. Up, down, sideways and front-ways. It’s fun.
I’ve been told I’m beautiful with almost reverence.
I’ve been listened to, talked through the fact that I’m not ready for exclusivity, seen a dad who loves his daughter so much that he literally cried at the Michael Buble’ song, “Forever Now.” I’ve had a poem written for me, my music played on the speaker, the door opened for me and so forth. I mean that seems pretty special as I write it. But for a dude right? Like we expect women to be that mature, that awesome. Maybe I’m just friends with the most amazing women who exist. Actually that’s probably it.
Hinge date #1 has surprised me with all the above. He did cry when I played him Buble’s song. He did write me a poem of five couplets. He has made me laugh so hard.
He knows I’m goddamn smart.
He knows I will call him on his bullshit. And is okay with that.
He seems to think I’m the most beautiful creature who’s ever existed.
In six days, he writes and speaks the words I’ve needed to hear the last six years.
He likes who I am, fully. So far.
I think he’s smart for liking who I am.
I think I’m not ready for him. He could be someone I could spend my life with. Just sayin’. It’s possible.
I’m pushing his buttons to see what he does.
Will keep you posted.
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