Sleep Over at Schmooie's (Part II)

Shy Boy had the day off. We met up for our usual routine, lunch and movies then back to his place for awhile. It was a cold but sunny day. No reason to worry. Or so you’d think! Afternoon became evening. We had had a fun afternoon. But seeing as his favorite sitcom from the 1980s involving a quartet of four older women and their mature, womanly adventures started a marathon on tv, it became difficult to talk to Shy Boy. What would be a distraction of sports for a normal guy is a Golden Girls marathon for Shy Boy. (Yep, the dude’s insane.) Around 8 pm as I was getting ready to leave, my sister called to tell me it had begun sleeting in our neighborhood and a thin but slick layer of ice was already coating the road. Shy Boy lived in a much more urban area than me. There was no sign of any precipitation looking out his window. I got ready to rush home ahead of the sudden impending bad weather. When I got to my car, cold drizzle and sleet was starting to come down on my windshield. As if reading my mind, my sister called again and was worried about me driving. She and my mom wanted me to spend the night at Shy Boy’s place.

While Shy Boy had been looking for an excuse for me to sleep over for some time now, I was afraid of putting him out. He had to go work the next day and I was sure company wasn’t something he might be interested in. I started to feel really guilty that I hadn’t went home sooner, that I hadn’t paid better attention to the weather report, and (worst yet) that my mother would be wondering what Shy Boy and I were up to for the rest of the night. For all those reasons, I began to feel idiotic. Shy Boy, on the other hand, instantly took charge and wanted to be useful. He ordered a pizza. Then he insisted on cleaning his bed sheets. He said I’d take his bed and he’d sleep out on the sofa. He swooped up his sheets and ran down to the basement to throw his bedding in the washing machine. He told me to stay warm in his apartment while he walked down the street to pick up the pizza. But I wanted to check the weather conditions, so I insisted on going too. In no time at all, his neighborhood had become covered in a slick sheet of sleet and ice making it difficult to walk down the sidewalk let alone drive down the street. I would have been caught up in a sudden dangerous driving condition if I hadn’t stayed with him.

Still, I felt guilty. I felt like I should’ve known better, somehow paid better attention. He told me to stop beating myself up over something I couldn’t control and at the very least maybe in the future my mother would let me spend the night more often. (Ha, always so appealing to him to have a sleepover. Only seeing as he’s a nice very innocent sort of guy, it’d probably be an all night fest of gossip and doing each other’s hair.) I do have to admit, I was impressed with Shy Boy. In one hour he had gone from a couch potato glob into a take charge sort of dude, something I had never seen him do so effortlessly before. Meanwhile, he wasn’t sure if it was such a good idea for him to go to work the next day. He started planning out loud things we could eat in his freezer and things to do if the weather continued to decline. His whole attitude changed. At any other point in the day, he would’ve tried to give me a long kiss or some sort of romantic hugs, but this time, he would only give supportive pecks and a protective hug. Plus he was bending over backwards to treat me like a queen. When he heard I preferred evening baths over morning showers, he quickly went into his bathroom to clean his tub. (Incidentally, I didn’t take a bath that night. I hate to shower in strange places. One time during a six week stink where I had to dorm in a condo with a group of guys, I got pretty rank in my attempts to avoid a foreign shower. Even when I go to a hotel I inadvertently avoid showering, I’m just strange like that.)

Outside, the sleet and ice was slowly turning to rain and what was on the ground was melting a bit. Inside, it was time for bed. Shy Boy had a spare toothbrush and, over planning everything, he told me he could give me a fresh bar of soap, deodorant, shaving cream or whatever I might need if I felt more comfortable showering after he left for work in the morning. I brushed my teeth and when I returned to the living room, he was already in his pajamas. I’ve seen a lot of friends and family members in their pj’s. But there’s something odd about seeing a Schmooie wanna-be in his pajamas, not sexy or embarrassing, but some sort of vulnerability. I didn’t have that problem seeing as I wore the clothes that I came in. At first he offered one of his old shirts, then he changed his mind. (He pretended he didn’t want me to get cold, but I think the true reason was he didn’t have a clean shirt to loan me.) He did have cute calves though. He kissed me goodnight with minty fresh toothpaste breath and grabbed a spare sheet from the closet to use on the bed he had made up for himself on the living room sofa. It wasn’t really a sheet. It was more like a quilt, a blankie for a grown guy. His grandmother had knitted it for him. It smelled like it hadn’t been washed in years.

The morning came with a lot of noise in his urban neighborhood as students milled about and a garbage truck squealed around the neighborhood. Shy Boy walked past the bedroom on the way to the bathroom. He didn’t want to wake me up, but I was already awake, so he stopped in the doorway to say hello. He had a tremendous mop of bed head hair that made him look sort of like a little chipmunk. He doesn’t snore, but I did hear him make some strange gurgling noises in the middle of the night. He claimed I snored just slightly in the middle of the night. Liar! I can’t sleep in socks. In the middle of the night, I took them off and left them under the night stand. He suddenly picked them up all panicky that they were his and he had been a slob. Boy the dude must need glasses. My feet are way smaller than his.

He went to check on the conditions outside. Things looked slushy and a bit messy, but much more tolerable than they had been the night before. The temperatures overnight had risen to just above freezing. The roads had cleared enough for him to get to work, but I was still cautious about having to make the 40 minute trip back home. He told me to spend the morning there if I needed to and told me to go back to sleep. I didn’t want to sleep. It felt rude and I wanted to be useful somehow. He doesn’t eat breakfast, so instead of cooking, I had to think of some other way to be useful and show my appreciation. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair and stayed out of the way while he got ready for work. He switched on the tv and told me to relax. When a guy gets ready in the morning after having a girl spend the night at his place, it’s nothing like it is on tv. There’s not much sexiness or romance involved. It’s more run of the mill and everyday. He does give a good kiss goodbye though.

After he left, I felt the urge to be nice, show my appreciation for his kindness, by washing the very dirty blankie he had slept on. It stunk to high heaven. It probably hadn’t been washed in centuries, or since the time he was a kid, whichever came first. I washed it by hand since it appeared to be somewhat delicate and put it on very low in the communal apartment dryer down in the basement. While I waited for the dryer to finish, I walked over to the corner bakery and got me a chocolate croissant to enjoy, tis my weakness. I got an extra one for Shy Boy and left it on the kitchen table for him along with a sweet little note. Then I made his bed and picked up his sleeping clothes that he had rushed to change out of that morning.  It wasn’t till I got home that I realized I had subconsciously did the work of his mother--laundry was the very thing that had spurned on his extreme bout of lazy assed oafery the month before while visiting his family. He had become overly indulgent when he was with his family because his mom had taken care of the washing and cooking. But it was different having me do his washing for him versus his mother. He called later that night acting rather over the moon, lovey dovey, and very happy that I had left the place “so girly” as he put it. He said he didn’t want me to be like his friend’s girlfriend who cleans his house for him, that it wasn’t necessary but he appreciated it. I was relieved it was possible to break couch potato Shy Boy away from the tv when it was vitally necessary. Mr. Romance did a good job trying to be Mr. Useful. Still, I’m keeping a close eye on him.

Sleep Over at Schmooie’s—(Part I)

I’ve been meaning to post an update since the last blog post only nothing really interesting has happened that would make for good reading. Now it’s high time to update everyone on the status of that certain Schmooie wanna-be called Shy Boy.

As you’ll recall from the last post, Shy Boy went away to another state to visit family over the holidays. He called every night to tell me what he had been up to that day, and I actually started to miss him. Until, that is, he called me one night in the middle of his trip and acted like a jackass. Sure, there are a lot worse things he could have done during that phone call. He could’ve been clubbing, boozing, all the things that make guys idiots. But Shy Boy’s not that type of guy. He’s a lazy stay at home kind of guy. And that was just the problem. Days of being pamper by his mother and father had turned a healthy grown man into a slothy, somewhat sleezy, indulgent twelve year old. What scared me was that I had never heard or seen him act that way to me before. He had always been responsible, doting, and caring toward me. It angered and freaked me out. I began to wonder, if this indolent sloth was the true Shy Boy. I did not know this person and I was ready to kill him!

Toward the end of his trip, he started to sound a lot more like the Shy Boy I knew. I tried to keep in mind the words of a wise sensei who said that a person is always different around his parents than he is around other people. I could hold in my rage no longer, although it had now brewed down to a mere troubled concern. I told him how he had scared me, that he didn’t sound like the same Shy Boy I knew, that he sounded so lazy and pampered and it worried me. He seemed vaguely aware of what I was talking about.  I brought it up with him again, this time to his face, when he got back. He admitted having his family take care of him did make him more lazy and that he liked the escaped of being a kid again, but by the end of the trip, he was glad to be back because even he was going a tad crazy. I’ve seen him about three times since his trip and during all those times, he’s been consistently like he the caring doting romantic Shy Boy I’ve been accustomed to. So here’s hoping he doesn’t become a lazy sloth on my watch.

Now onto the rest of today’s blog….(There's a lot to say, so see next entry below)

Mr. Romance is So Last Week

Call me a pampered spoiled girl or someone with unrealistically high expectations, but that stupid Schmooie wanna-be known as Shy Boy really irritated the crap out of me today. He honestly can’t understand why I keep a wall up to romance and to completely “falling in love.” Well, today he reminded me why it is that I keep a wall up. Indeed, just as I was about to let down my guard, he disappointed me.

Shy Boy is currently in another state visiting his parents for a week. He had been so sweet for the past few days that I was actually starting to dig him more than I did before. He had made it a mission to try to melt me. I’m a bit skeptical about romance and he was trying to find a way to reverse that feeling. The way he acted today only confirmed my skepticism. I don’t believe in the stomach churning fluff of romantic films. I firmly believe that if a dude does act romantic, he’s only doing so for one of three reasons: to impress a girl, to marry a girl, or to get in a girl’s pants. Once he’s done any one or all of those three things, the romance goes out the door and you’re left with an oaf around the house who expects you to pamper and take care of him. I mean, seriously. You watch a romantic film or maybe even an action/adventure film where the hero and heroine end up together in the end and I’m supposed to sigh and think it’s lovely? Does anyone really stop to think about what that so-called heroic character is like following the film adaptation? Sure, Prince Charming kissed Snow White and broke the spell and they moved to his castle and lived happily ever after. But then what? I’m sure Prince Charming was not so charming once Snow White got to know him. He won the girl, so why bother with the romance any further? I’m sure he left his dirty socks and undies around the house expecting her to clean up after him. I guess Cinderella after meeting her Prince Charming had the charming duty of cleaning and washing for her oaf of a prince who never volunteered to help her in such duties.

Anyway, I’ll admit the past few times I’d seen Shy Boy and the past few times on the phone while he’s away in another state, he had been succeeding in his operation melt me goal....

For one thing, the idiot bought me a particular book that I've wanted for a really long time. Of course, instead of keeping it a surprise, he told me he bought it. It was cold outside when I came to his place last week to pick up the book and have dinner with him. When I got inside and made myself comfortable, he told me my hands felt cold and cuddled me till I got warm. After dinner, he picked me up like he was carrying me over a threshold, kissed me, and carried me over to the sofa. Then, this past Friday before his trip, I was at his place again for dinner. He found a good radio station on his television and danced (terribley). Then he cuddled me on the sofa and sang to me (terribley). Finally, he left a very sweet e-mail the day of his trip saying he missed me already. Up until today, he was very cute and fun on the phone while on his family vacation. How he acted today made me angry because it was like he didn't even remember how he acted those past two Fridays. And it just confirmed my theory that romance is only a tool for guys to get a girl to like them, to marry them, or to get in their pants. Once a guy is firmly attached to a girl, he drops the sweet gushiness and just becomes a pest.

He only confirmed my theory that romance is a tool of men and not something all sweet and fuzzy.

I could not stand Shy Boy's attitude on the phone. Tomorrow his parents are throwing a Hannukah party and he's not even going to help. Instead, he wants to go to the movies, claiming that way he'll keep out of the way. Today he helped his dad at work. He had to get up extremely early. Even though his dad did all the hard work, Shy Boy came home and acted lazy and exhausted. His parents went grocery shopping at 8 pm to get some last minute items for the party. They have the energy of a person Shy Boy’s age while he’s got the energy of a person his parents’ age! Stupid Shy Boy said he'd rather just go to Costco early in the morning when he needs to get his grocery shopping done. He acts like an old man! Here's Shy Boy's dad who did all that work and driving today and still goes out at night to run an errand. His mom meanwhile is doing his laundry. What right does he have to act tired and lazy?

Why can’t he be more like his father? His dad is a vibrant, adventurous fun-loving guy. He does hilarious impressions and he’s not afraid to venture to hole in the wall places for a new experience. His father is the type of person I’m looking for in Schmooie. Stupid lazy Shy Boy is the exact opposite. He’d rather sit at home and watch a movie. He’ll be the one at the party that’s sitting quietly at the table ready and waiting to leave. And instead of trying to learn from his father, he down-plays and makes fun of his father. What if I was stupid enough to marry Shy Boy? I can just picture Shy Boy as a father with a three year old son, both sitting opened mouthed , in a daze at the television screen.

Being  Mr. Romance is not enough. I need Mr. Useful. He lacked any of his usual thoughtfulness today. So is it just a rouse? Sure people are entitled to an off day. But I don’t need and I don’t WANT a lazy shlub!!! Maybe he was just tired from having had to go to work at the unusual ungodly hour of 6am, but this isn’t the first time I’ve seen this lazy insensitive side to him. This is just the first time I’ve seen so much of it in such a short span. And to think he actually wanted me to come with him on that trip. Heaven only knows how crazy I’d be going right now.

The Frenchies Have Influenced the Schmooies

(This entry will start off first being reflective and then will move on to the immature silly stuff you all know and love me for.)

I hate almost anything French, except French fries. More on that in a minute. First let me take a moment for reflection.

A great friend reminded me of how desperate, frustrated and lonely I was just eight months ago.  Upon that friend’s wise recommendation, I started this blog to give my annoyance a place to be heard outside of my own head. At that time, the career I thought I wanted was pulled out from under me. I was living in an area of the country where it was nearly impossible to date any Jewish men. My mom’s friends were placing her in a paranoid state about my love life, which then translated into her placing me into a paranoid state about my lack of love life. It all felt a bit hopeless, utterly fruitless. Something ridiculous to be concerned about and yet I couldn’t stop feeling bugged by it. Some nights, I’d find myself praying before bed to find a boyfriend already, someone in my age group to love me unconditionally, deeply, affectionately, all the things a girl hears about in movies but never actually finds in real life. So now that there’s this actual dude in front of me called Shy Boy who’s trying to do all those things, I have to go and over scrutinize him. Of course, I forgot to leave out the specifics in that prayer—how he should look, what his job should be, that I should be as equally deeply in love with him as he is with me. I’m not sure what it is about human nature, or maybe it’s that the career I’m in naturally encourages one to over think, over plan, and have a tight need for control. Shy Boy’s got all that gooshy romantic stuff in him for sure, but still he’s just not what I pictured Schmooie to be. He’s nothing like I expected and yet he’s everything a girl should want. Would someone please explain this phenomenon to me?

My mama blames herself for the fact that I feel too good for most men, that I feel I must tread carefully, and for my stealth ability at protecting my own heart. She trained me never to let a man break my heart and to always take anything a man says with a grain of salt. Of course, my mama’s also the same one who kvetches (Yiddish word meaning “complains”), “What? You wanna be in your fifties and unmarried?” Yes, maybe I do. I just want a nice boyfriend who’s not going to hurt me. I didn’t say I wanted a husband…

Alright, got that out of my system. That was the mature part of this entry. Now onto the immature silliness I’m more accustomed to and comfortable with…

As I said before, French fries are about the only thing “French” I dig. Would someone then please explain to me what’s so great about a French kiss? Shy Boy is the utmost gentleman. Chivalrous and old fashioned to a fault. On the other hand, he’s also a passionate dude. He loves to kiss and be kissed. But he never does anything inappropriate. I’m the one with the child-like immaturity. Sometimes he’ll be in the middle of a great kiss and I’ll let my mouth go limp and tell him I’m a dead fish. I do it just to annoy him. But he found a way to annoy me back. He told me the next time I pulled a so called “dead fish kiss” he would French kiss me. Sure enough, he was true to his word. And I discovered: French kisses are disgusting! Blame it on the fact that my profession involves looking at tongues on a daily basis. Then again, French kissing also involves too much thinking. I get afraid someone’s tongue is going to get bitten off. At any rate, I’m pretty sure attempting a French kiss has been on Shy Boy’s radar for some time now and he was just looking for an excuse to spring it on me. So I went home and researched “French kissing.” See, in my profession, evidence based anything is important for being a good practioner. Someone on some website recommended pretending the other person’s tongue was soft-serve ice cream. Eww! That put me off soft serve ice cream for a week. (Ooo, and now I just realized that perhaps if you too google “French kiss” this blog post might just pop up. Hi out there!) The following week, after I regained my love of soft serve ice cream, I decided if Shy Boy went in for another French kiss, I’d just follow the advice of my research. The only problem was that advice worked too well. Just when I’ve gotten used to French kissing and hoped he’d had enough of this newfound way of kissing, he tells me how much he likes doing it. Apparently, he likes how my tongue feels on his tongue. Now almost every kiss has a tongue in it! Eww! It’ll be a good thing when he decides he’s sick of being French and wants to be American again. I must make a mental note to find a way to nip this in the bud or tongue as it were.

On the Subject of Prissy Princesses

Sometimes I feel a bit angry or defeated. Even though I went to a wonderful school and had phenomenally amazing classmates, from time to time, there are a small handful of classmates who stick out in my mind. At times, I find I compare myself to that small handful of wide-eyed, pretty-faced, flimsy framed, high pitched, little flibbity girls that ended up with the career I wanted. Those same Prissy Princess Girls also ended up with gorgeous boyfriends and husbands. They have what I thought I wanted: the perfect career and the perfect man. So while I now strive to get my career where I want it to be, a Schmooie wanna-be called Shy Boy has been pursuing me. He’s cute, but not gorgeous on the outside, (not what I grew up picturing “gorgeous” to be). He is a good guy, a great guy actually, on the inside. Still, there have been times where after all these years, I feel I’m comparing myself to those Prissy Princess Girls I once knew. What’s the point in that? I have no idea. Shy Boy will coo and say the sweetest things to me, which only makes me giggle, blush, and look away. He wants to know what guy in the past hurt my self-esteem so badly. Truth is, it was no guy who did that to me. I’d never let an idiot guy hurt my opinion of myself. It was the same sex, those Prissy Princess females, which made (and make) me wonder if I’m doing something wrong.

The thing to remember is that a pretty package may have a nasty surprise. Those so called handsome guys the Prissy Princesses ended up with probably have a lot wrong with them to end up with such catty little women. But still, it infuriates me to no end that the Prissy Princesses always appear to win. Those Prissy Princesses got the career I wanted. Why shouldn’t they get the perfect Prince for their perfect Stepford lives? I guess I should keep in mind that the greatest talent of a Prissy Princess is in keeping up appearances. Those so called handsome guys might be real duds when not being told what to do by their Prissy Princesses. Shy Boy knows how to be romantic without being told. He goes out of his way to do something for me before I even ask. He knows how to touch my skin in a way that makes me happy. He’s thoughtful, considerate, and protective. He’s never demanding and he’s always sincere. He can say gooey things and mean it without wanting any “special favors” in return. On top of that, he’s a great kisser and he’s intelligent. He truly loves me and it shows in his kisses and in his actions. That should outweigh the negative things. Things such as: he’s starting to bald; he’s a bit cross eyed; he’s overly apologetic at times; he’s overly gentle to the point of infuriating; he’s very quiet unless the subject is music or movies; sometimes he acts like he’s not quite aware of the things around him when he’s walking down a street; he act and looks far more mature than his age; he has no music or artistic ability; he’s fun loving but sometimes I have to come up with the ideas first.

He’s not someone you’ll instantly look at and need to sit down. He’s not someone you’ll talk to for a few minutes and need to sit down. He’s not instantly charming physically or socially is what I mean to say. Indeed, he’s not the type of guy I ever pictured myself with.

Meanwhile, is it possible the the Stepford boyfriends and husbands of those Prissy Princesses look perfect on the outside and act perfect socially, but have no abilities at home to do the same? Shy Boy needs no coaxing or training on how to be a man towards me. I bet most of those good looking Stepford boyfriends and husbands don’t offer a foot rub or back rub out of the blue. They don’t come over and wrap their arms around their Prissy Princess while she’s doing her hair just because they treasure her. They don’t stop whatever it is that they’re doing just to gaze at their Prissy Princess. They don’t bother to call despite being exhausted from a long work day just to say hello. For all I know, they probably take their Prissy Princess for granted. And who could blame them? They were the ones idiotic enough to fall for the Prissy Princess. Perhaps, while those particular girls are busy sniveling along, seemingly getting their way in almost everything they do, it’s all an act. And you know what? Maybe I am the true Queen Bee.  

Meeting of the Mothers

This weekend, Shy Boy’s mother came to town. You see, in case that sentence didn’t make sense, Shy Boy’s mother lives several states away. Of course, I had already met her at the wedding, but I didn’t have much time to talk to her at that point because she was so busy helping her other son get married. I was pleasantly surprised by the events of this past weekend. The way Shy Boy presented it to me, I was ready for a long weekend of interrogations about my intentions with her son. I was ready for a meeting of the mothers where each sizes the other one up and draws up a dowry, in spite of the fact that he and I have only known each other for a little over three months. (The anticipation and apprehension for something being taken far too seriously than it should be would explain my anger toward Shy Boy and Jewish mothers in general in my last blog post.) In reality, Shy Boy’s mother felt bad that she hadn’t spent much time with him during the wedding weekend, and since he had some availability in his work schedule, she wanted to come see him. She had also heard great things about my family, particularly my mother, and wanted to meet her. We got together with her three times during the weekend, each day spent full of eating and shopping. The mothers instantly hit it off. I am a bit jealous of his mom. She worries about her son like any mother, but she seems to be so encouraging and just wants her son to be happy, even if his vision of happiness differs from her own. My mother is a great mother, but she’s more pessimistic and wants things her way when it comes to raising her children and how her children should live their lives. Shy Boy’s mother didn’t care that I want to go back to my beloved state out West. She wasn’t pushy. I was worried one Jewish mother might try to dominate the other, but they actually got along quite well. Both had a lot to talk about, and most of their conversations had nothing to do with Shy Boy or myself. I’m a bit odd about being too physical with Shy Boy when my mom is around. Even something as innocent as hand holding makes me nervous in front of my mother. He respected that, as he always does. This weekend, I felt more comfortable with touching him and having him kiss me goodbye in front of my mother. I still haven’t fallen for him. But I do feel more attached to him. I’m not in love with him and I’m not sure what it’s going to take to actually “fall in love.” (Besides, why should it be him out of anyone that I “fall in love with” anyway?) But I do love him. I feel much freer now that the mothers know each other and no one’s forcing us to do anything. I just enjoy Shy Boy’s company. I’m glad and hopeful that that’s good enough for now.  

The Great-on-Paper Guy

So I spent quite some time writing up a blog entry about how the wedding went, how much fun we had, that we got closer physically (nothing sexual of course because Shy Boy’s a gentleman). But I’m not gonna lie. I’ve decided not to post it. There’s a good reason behind it that has nothing to do with privacy. Since the wedding occurred two weeks ago, I’ve been to his apartment for the first time. I’ve seen him happy and I’ve seen him bored. I’ve been to NYC with him. All the while, love has grown deeper for him and kept lukewarm for me. Every time I think love might start to simmer in me, it fizzles away again. When I read a string of e-mails between one of my friends and me during the past two to three weeks, there is an interesting rise and fall in emotions. Immediately after the wedding, I was still giddy and almost felt myself falling for Shy Boy. Last week, I could go either way but I was still leaning more toward liking him. Over the past few days, I’ve gone completely neutral.  I’ve even wrote a follow-up blog post to the wedding discussing my disdain for him, but it's not worth posting. Instead, I'm writing this post now. Some days I think he’s a great guy, other days I’m perfectly happy without him. Shy Boy is The Great-on-Paper Guy. Why is he great-on-paper but not in real life? I still can’t quite figure it out myself. He’s chivalrous, a gentleman, kind, thoughtful, worships me. But he’s old fashioned, like everything is to me on the East Coast. He’s willing to come to my beloved city in the West, but I don’t think he’d like it. He looks and acts much older than his age. He’s shy, sensitive, and somewhat timid. He’s so gentle it’s irritating. I don’t want to be the one in the relationship with the balls or testosterone! How is it possible that he treats me like a lady and can protect me on the streets of New York while all the while being so shy and sensitive?  There’s something, something I can’t describe and can’t pinpoint that’s missing. And that thing that’s missing is the great wall that keeps me from falling in love with him. He tells me he’ll do whatever makes me happy. He says all he wants is to be loved and have someone love him. But deep down I know he wants a serious relationship. At the same time, I can't bring myself to tell him, to break his heart, that I don't think I'm ever going to love him. Then again, I should keep in mind we haven’t even known each other for that long. In all actuality, it’s only been three months.

In true parent-child fashion, I want to blame our pushy Jewish mothers who think we belong together just because we’re of “a certain age” and have not found someone yet, as the reason why I can’t love him. For crying out loud, we’re not that old and even if we were, we have to find our own way to be happy. Maybe I just don’t want to get married and have children. Maybe the more society forces it on me and the deeper in love he tells me he is; the more I want to run away from him. Then I get to thinking of those lonely nights in my beloved state back West. The nights I cried because I didn’t have a boyfriend. The nights I prayed for a boyfriend to no avail. Now, I find myself thinking that I can do better than him. I don’t know how, it’s probably an immature naïve thing to even be thinking of. My expectations are probably far too high. I’m looking for bigger, better, best. Maybe I love a state out West more than I could ever love him, even if he did come out there to be with me. All I know is, I like him as a boyfriend and I wish people would leave it at that, including him.