So I had date number three with Mr. Nice Guy and, guys, really… He is just really super cool.
He’s surprising me in some ways — super mature and a great communicator. He opened up to me about being a little freaked out about stepping over toys when he came over to my house yesterday afternoon. We talked about it and I feel pretty good about it. It’s a difficult thing for me to wrap my brain around — being freaked out by the boy child. I suppose I’m just used to him…? haha. I also think I do a fair job of compartmentalizing my regular-self with my mom-self. Being a mother has certainly shaped and guided my path into a different direction, but it’s hardly how I define myself. Know what I mean?
But it was good. I let him know that it would be six or eight months before we’d have to cross that bridge and that dating is supposed to be about having fun and getting to know somebody… I encouraged him to not get ahead of himself — just ride this wave out and see where it takes us. We can cross bridges when we get to them. That seemed to make him feel better, but I am just super impressed that he brought it up and was able to verbalize how he was feeling.
We stole away for dinner in the city last night — Ah, how I love Atlanta. Had a great dinner in Atlantic Station and then went over to Zesto and got some softserve… He is increasingly affectionate, which is really cool. Sometimes, I’m not really sure what to do with all the affection, but I think that’s just me being conditioned by being with real assholes in the past. I can remember, in almost every relationship I’ve ever had, I’ve felt neglected in that area… So, this is nice. Feeling pretty and desired and taken care of and all of that.
Still moving very, very slow. The great thing about dating someone who is just as busy as you is that you tend to move at a nice comfortable pace. I’m looking forward to seeing him, but I’m not really sure when that will be… And that’s kind of okay. It keeps things fresh and new and not in a set schedule/routine.
Two thumbs up, for sure.
