It has been a rough week, but I can't complain. I enjoyed most of it. I put in close to 70 hours this week trying to rush out a last minute proposal, and I feel good about the product. On Thursday I didn't go home from work until after the birds began chirping. It reminded me of the days in architecture school.
I was bone tired Friday night and barely lasted for the Hong Kong v New Zealand Universities match. HK lost, as I expected they would, but I was impressed by an angry, little center (probably not that little, actually) who tried so hard to motivate the HK team and make a breakthrough.
Dinner was terrible; SB and I went to get some grub with another couple and ended up choking down some sub-par food along Temple Street. The other couple wisely chose not to eat while I was so hungry that I had no choice. The conversation more than made up for the meal, and had SB chuckling for another day. We were having a frank discussion on dating and SB was inadvertently doing much to support my assertion that I don't have to worry about losing him to another woman. It has nothing to do with his attractiveness, and I think he is quite handsome and sexy. Instead, he is such a guy, to the point that his is practically a caricature of himself, that most somewhat feminine women would flee after a few minutes. He subscribes to hunting magazines; he plays ice hockey, lacrosse, rugby, Gaelic ball, about any sport that isn't basketball or soccer; he is very restless and cannot sit still; and he is Captain Oblivious.
Any women who makes a move on him will soon come to realize that she might as well pack away the nice dresses, heeled shoes, and fancy perfume because they won't last very long in the woods. And kiss goodbye to the hair products and make-up because if you do manage to convince him to take you somewhere, he will spend up until the very last minute doing something else and you will only have five minutes to change into something nice. I do not enjoy seeing women hit on him but I don't really have grave concern that I need to worry about him. He knows who cooks his dinner and rubs his back.
I may be the only woman for him. Or at least one of only a few who won't have a breakdown at some point into the relationship. There are several times per week that I point to my forehead and remind him that he is one action away from causing wrinkles. But then he looks so cute when he laughs at me that I cannot stay mad.
I was bone tired Friday night and barely lasted for the Hong Kong v New Zealand Universities match. HK lost, as I expected they would, but I was impressed by an angry, little center (probably not that little, actually) who tried so hard to motivate the HK team and make a breakthrough.
Dinner was terrible; SB and I went to get some grub with another couple and ended up choking down some sub-par food along Temple Street. The other couple wisely chose not to eat while I was so hungry that I had no choice. The conversation more than made up for the meal, and had SB chuckling for another day. We were having a frank discussion on dating and SB was inadvertently doing much to support my assertion that I don't have to worry about losing him to another woman. It has nothing to do with his attractiveness, and I think he is quite handsome and sexy. Instead, he is such a guy, to the point that his is practically a caricature of himself, that most somewhat feminine women would flee after a few minutes. He subscribes to hunting magazines; he plays ice hockey, lacrosse, rugby, Gaelic ball, about any sport that isn't basketball or soccer; he is very restless and cannot sit still; and he is Captain Oblivious.
Any women who makes a move on him will soon come to realize that she might as well pack away the nice dresses, heeled shoes, and fancy perfume because they won't last very long in the woods. And kiss goodbye to the hair products and make-up because if you do manage to convince him to take you somewhere, he will spend up until the very last minute doing something else and you will only have five minutes to change into something nice. I do not enjoy seeing women hit on him but I don't really have grave concern that I need to worry about him. He knows who cooks his dinner and rubs his back.
I may be the only woman for him. Or at least one of only a few who won't have a breakdown at some point into the relationship. There are several times per week that I point to my forehead and remind him that he is one action away from causing wrinkles. But then he looks so cute when he laughs at me that I cannot stay mad.
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