I was subtly notified last night that yesterdays post – accusing my brand-spanking new lover of potentially turning me into a Zoë-shaped ice cube was NOT the best way to introduce my new boyfriend to the blogging world. Apparently abandonment and hypothermia are not too indicative of true love and intense caring. Whoops!
Apparently that’s considered mean.
Even though I’ve thoroughly switched from the bitter breakup country to the gooeyest of corny love-songs all of a sudden. Definitely indicative of heart-loss. And added his address in my Google Maps as a favorite location, and into my Thuisbezorgd app as a delivery option. Plus, logged his birthday in my agenda, that pretty much contains only my grandparents and sister so as I don’t forget.
The thing is – regardless of all of that – I was tiptoe-ing around the subject of love and boyfriends a bit in my last few posts.
Mostly because I’ve only known said gorgeous man for a little over a month, and things feel so new and shiny that I’m very scared to ruin it in one of the many ways that is undoubtedly within my particular range of crazy. I mean, the boy could totally still come to his senses at any point and head for the hills screaming and armflopping, without me even blaming him.
Plus, he’d already given me a warning that he likes his anonymity and my blogging habits need not necessarily expose everything there is to know about him, or us or the adorableness that is his cats (for instance). So I was being a good girl, only hinting at his existence. But apparently I AM permitted to brag about the fact that…I HAZ ONE.
Tinder came through. I have acquired a new piece of mancandy. No more dating for me, Cinderella or otherwise. Hells to the yes!
But it’s still scary to write about. Sort of.
New relationships kind of have that early pregnancy feel to me. You know what I mean right?
The way you’re not supposed to tell anyone until you’re 12 weeks in, because so much can go wrong in the early stages? Boyfriends are like that to me. I’ve had way too many occasions where I’d mentally prepared the people in my life for a new boo, only to have them disappear into nothingness way before any introductions could be made. Poof!
Now, I’m not saying that this bloke is one of dem duds, not at all. I can honestly say I’ve not fallen so hard so fast for someone before, and it’s a constant amazement on how in sync I can be with someone – seeing as I’m a collection of weird, strange and crazy all rolled into one. Yet, he matches me in the parts that matter with ease. It’s amazeballs.
But with that amazement and all of the fuzzy warm feelings – also comes the fear of losing this thing that I now no longer want to live without. Hence – SCARY. What if it all goes wrong, again?
Doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s all the good kinds of weird. That he has quirks that suit mine to a tee. It doesn’t make him any less handsome, and effortlessly yummy. It deeeefinitely doesn’t make me (pretty much damn constantly) want him on whatever surface is available and it surely doesn’t diminish the power he has over my body in all of the best of ways.
Add that to the fact that he comes in an uniform, which is pretty much THE weakness for any romance-inclined girl (and means he’s actually working at a career) and you have a happy me (slightly drooling). Especially since the only thing he’s a daddy to are two adorbs catmonsters (instead of four actual kids) without chomping at the bit to make his own mini-mes. MUCH YAY.
Oh – and did I mention that he likes his relationships like I like my food? All his. Only his. Non share-able? Hells-fucking-yeah.
So hear ye, hear ye, one and all.
This psycho is off the market. No more heartbreak poems, complaining about or pining for men-that-are-bad-for-her. No more mentions of ‘that ex’ or obsessively missing the ‘love’ parts of an otherwise decent life. Oh, and definitely no more Tinder drama’s or tales. Nope.
Prepare for the loveydovey happy version of me. Or well – prepare to miss her (because the past has shown: the happier I am, the less I seem to have the urge to write, I think. Maybe. I hope not though).
Because – and I repeat: I SCORED ME A BOO.
And regardless of any and all temperature-offenses against my person: he makes me exceedingly happy.