You know that feeling you get when you first begin to get to know someone of the opposite sex? It’s the feeling when you overlook all reason and practicality and simply embrace the idea that God has seemingly answered your prayer and checked off every little box on your list of wants. You forget the bedtime and stay on the phone until 3am. You roll into work the next day in sleepy satisfaction of your blossoming romance. You smile more, and your co-workers notice, but you don’t tell them why because for now, you just want to keep this flicker to yourself, and besides, you wouldn’t want to jinx it. You roll out of the bed early on Sunday mornings met with text messages and missed calls, and as you hasten to reply, you rejoice and rest in the fact that your quick responses don’t make you seem desperate. This infatuation is mutual. You ask a few close friends some hypothetical questions like ” Could you see me with a…” or “What if I dated a…?” They give their dubious opinions, but their answers don’t matter anyway because you are far too smitten and far too removed from reality. You begin to imagine a future together with him. He fits in so well with your plans. Then, you hit the two week mark.
I marvel at how quickly the spark dies.