On Wednesday, I went on my first second date in almost a year. Well, actually, my first second date in over a year. Wow. I'm picky...like you didn't know that already!
And the date went well. The boy, well, let's face it, he's a man. He's not a man-child. He's a grown-up man, but not in that scary way that I worry about. He's not a grown up who will expect me to put away childish things. No, he's a man who's comfortable in his own skin, and that is oh so important.
He's still cute. He's still funny. He's still smart. And he has a great smile, and it's an even better smile when he's laughing at the same time.
Plus, when he saw me walking up the ramp leading to the restaurant, he had this kind of half-smile, smirk on his face, like he liked how I was looking (it's the acceptable white guy version of, "Dang baby, you look good.") On that particular day, I felt that my looks actually held and that I had pulled myself together nicely, so it was pleasant to feel appreciated. I'm a feminist, in my way, but I'm also still a woman, and I like to be appreciated for looking good. I know that I'm judged when I don't look my best, so it's nice for the opposite to be true as well.
So, yes, I like him. I think I like his smile best...
Oh, and we're going out again next weekend (no comments about why not this weekend - he's camping with his brothers, thank you very much).
So, I met a boy who is a man. I met a man who likes to smile. And I like him enough to see him again. That's all so rare.