It’s recently come to my attention that I like you. A lot. In my standard dating life, I struggle to get past the initial attraction phase. Something will happen – an untimely burp, the revelation of a whack-a-doodle political opinion, the donning of a pirate costume – that clicks the emotional lever in my brain from He’s so dreamy! to Please don’t kiss me. Ever. It’s quick and irreversible, like I have a wee guillotine in my heart, where other people have sunshine and rainbows.
And yet…here we are. It’s been two months, neither of which was really-just-an-extended-weekend February. We’ve been to concerts, eaten lots of Mexican food, and spent an inordinate amount of time making out on your couch. By all rights, I should be less excited about everything now. Kissing you should be old hat. Instead, I’m somehow more thrilled with your every glance. For example: last Sunday night when you kissed the top of my head during that movie we both didn’t like? I almost swooned. From a head peck! My dear professor, you have done a number on me.
This – surprise! – completely freaks me out. I’m suddenly way too attached to my iPhone and have caught myself daydreaming at inopportune moments. Worse, I’ve also crossed over into that magical place called The Land of Emotional Vulnerability and Increased Potential For Heartbreak. Professor darling, I do not enjoy this place. This is not somewhere I want to spend an extended holiday! Here there be dragons and bears and self-doubt.
This is exactly why I’ve never understood serial monogamists. How do people stand doing this over and over again? It’s like having your heart pounced upon by wolf cubs, torn to shreds, then promptly volunteering to adopt a baby lion. Surely it would be safer to stay away from beclawed creatures for a time, right?! As you well know by now, I am a danger-avoiding soul. I do not jump from cliffs into murky water or taste cookie batter. So, even though I’ve never been attacked by baby lions before, those micro-claws still make me nervous. Biology dictates they won’t stay small and cute forever! Eventually they will be killing machines! Do not purchase baby lions!
Oh, crap. My analogy has jumped the shark a bit, it seems. Moral of the story: all of this scares me to death. Anything could happen, Professor. You could decide to become a monk or I could get an offer to move to Djibouti. I’ve passed the point where a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a weekend of moping will make those things okay. If this goes sour, I’m going to be really, legitimately, end-of-Atonement-style-sobbing upset. That’s terrifying. However, even worse would be not seeing this thing through.
So, here it goes: I really like you and that’s okay. I’ll try not to be such a coward, if you promise not to sic tiny lions on my heart.