It’s been awhile since I last posted and I apologize for my tardiness.
So much has happened. I might actually have to go back and re-read my last few posts to remind myself of where I left off in this interesting-only-to-me saga.
Last week I drove an hour out-of-town to meet with Mr. R with the plan of spending the day with him.
I did spend the day with him. A very nice, very beautiful day with him.
We walked by the water, we talked a lot, we had lunch, we had ice cream.
We laid down on a dock over the water and listened to the waves come ashore.
And then he said to me, “This is nice. I could be happy stranded on a deserted island with you.”
Nope. Not confusing at all.
It was sad and bittersweet for me, to spend that time with him. Because no matter what I may or may not feel for him… and no matter what he may or may not feel for me… he is just not man enough to be with me.
He doesn’t want me enough.
And that’s his loss.
It really is. It just took me some time to see that.
I had to meet someone, Mr. M, to remind myself what it’s like when someone actually WANTS to spend time with you.
To make time for you.
I’ve seen Mr. M. four times in 11 days.
A couple of dinners, a day trip to the mountain area and lakes nearby (which was amazingly beautiful), and on Tuesday this week he stopped over around nine on his motorcycle and we hung out and played catch for a little while.
Then he came up to my place and looked at some old photos of me when I was a kid.
I know. He actually looked through them all, voluntarily.
He left just after eleven because it was a ‘school night’, but it was a really nice little visit.
And man, does he look good on that bike. I never thought much about guys who ride motorcycles but day-am… he cuts a fine figure.
We text and email a lot. We have plans to do something again all day on Saturday, at which time I’d like to talk to him about where this is headed. He is just dipping his toes back into the dating waters; I’m the first person he’s met, and I want him to be sure that this is what he wants. It’s like going to the movies – I want him to be happy with the first seat he picked, and not wonder once the movie starts if he should have tried the view from a few others first.
Because I like Mr. M. On Saturday we talked non-stop for hours about everything; our families, past experiences, movies and especially music.
Turns out we both really love Van Morrison. So then we had to spend an hour playing “have you heard this one?” on our music players.
And we talked about movies. We like a lot of the same ones.
I mean… any guy who says he loves Forgetting Sarah Marshall gets a thumbs up in my books.
So yeah. I like Mr. M. The more time we spend together, the more I like him. He’s funny. He’s smart. He’s handsome. He cuts a fine figure on his very big bike. He has two kids – both over 18 – and seems like a good dad. He’s not lazy but he’s not a gym rat. He doesn’t cook, but I can deal with that. We have an awful lot of shared experiences and likes.
And so then after all this all I can think about is what the hell does he see in me?
Because Mr. M has the potential to rock my gypsy soul.
And that scares me.